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By Joseph Hatton. 

¥ 

WHEN GREEK MEETS GREEK. 

A Tale of Love and War. i2mo. Cloth, $i.oo ; 
paper, 50 cents. 

Joseph Hatton has written many successful 
volumes of incident, but in none of them has he 
given us a more stirring romance than in his latest 
novel, ‘ When Greek Meets Greek.' The charac- 
ters are drawn with a skilful hand, and the scenes 
follow each other in rapid succession, each teem- 
ing with interest and vigor .” — Boston Advertiser. 

THE BANISHMENT OF JESSOP BLYTHE. 
x2mo. Cloth, $1.00; paper, so cents. 

“ The author has depicted clearly a true social- 
istic organization on a small scale, which seems 
as though it might have been founded on fact. 
It is a strong story, extremely well told, and will 
attract attention as much for its socialistic ideas 
as for its romantic features .” — San Francisco 
Chronicle. 


The Vicar 


A Novel 


Joseph Hatton 

Author of “ When Greek Meets Greek,” The Banishment 
of Jessop Blythe,” etc. 



Philadelphia 


J. B. Lippincott Company 


Mdcccxcviii 

2nd COPY, 
1898 . 


%\ \'t,s 


5 5 59 


Copyright, 1898, 

BY 

J. B. Lippincott Company. 


o 




Dedicated to the Memory of James 
Alberyt a poet, to whose CollaboratioTiy 
in a Play founded upon this Story of 
mine, lam indebted for several dramatic 
passages and for the introduction of 
David Macfarlane, 



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CONTENTS. 


CHAPTER 

I. — “Arcades Ambo” 5 

II. — Studying for the Bar and Matriculating for 

THE Dock 12 

III. — “And learns too late that Men Betray" . 17 

IV. — “Jove sent her a Champion" 23 

V. — Cupid’s Post-Office 28 

VI. — David Macfarlane is cross-examined by Lady 

Berwick 35 

VII. — The Widow’s Plot 45 

VIII. — Gifts and Compliments 50 

IX. — The Widow and the Maiden 58 

X. — Keziah’s Word with Tom 68 

XI. — Lady Berwick and Susannah 73 

XII. — “Faint Heart never won Fair Lady" ... 81 

XIII. — “Check !" 89 

XIV. — “A Wicked and a Disappointing World" , . 97 

XV. — Without Gloves loi 

XVI. — An Interrupted Melody iii 

XVII. — Lord Cleeve’s Confession to the Vicar ... 118 

XVIII. — The Widow’s Game becomes Serious 13 1 

XIX. — Lady Berwick as Friend and Comforter . . 137 
XX. — “There’s nae Luck about the House" . . . 146 

XXL — “As Good as a Play" 152 

XXH. — Between the Acts 160 

XXHI. — The Face at the Window 165 

XXIV. — Luke Fenton is “Down on His Luck" . . . 172 
XXV. — Lizzie Melford makes her Reappearance . . 175 
XXVI. — David Macfarlane tells the Story of His Own 

AND Tom Hussingtree’s Adventures .... 188 

vii 


CONTENTS 

CHAPTER PAGE 

XXVIL— “Still harping on my Daughter” .... 198 

XXVIII.— After a Lonely Dinner 205 

XXIX. — The Fascinating Privileges of Widowhood 214 

XXX.— The Vicar accepts Lady Berwick’s Invita- 
tion TO Town 226 

XXXI.— The Return of the Prodigal 234 

XXXII.— An Eventful Night 241 

XXXIII.— Problems and Lovers 254 

XXXIV.— Susannah cross-examines Lady Berwick . 263 

XXXV. — The Visit to London 273 

XXXVI. — Of a Certain Reception in Grosvenor 

Square 284 

XXXVII. — To THE Music of Symphony and Song . . 292 

XXXVIII. — “All the World’s a Stage” 302 

XXXIX. — Susannah’s Secret 311 




viii 


THE VICAR 


CHAPTER I. 

“arcades ambo.” 

* ‘ Let us call it a council of war, on the eve of re- 
treat,” said Mr. Jim Renshaw, who in playful moments 
alluded to himself as a soldier of fortune, and when he 
was serious, or affected to be, as a man of the world. 

‘ ‘ I wish one could recall the first advance in our 
latest campaign,” Tom replied, his manner suggesting 
recklessness rather than despair. 

Indeed, Tom Hussingtree, the Vicar of Comberton- 
cum-Besford’s only son, was a picture of optimistic 
youth, with a hint, however, of ‘ ‘ the pace that kills’ ’ 
in the tired expression of his eyes and the feverish 
shiver with which he handled a strong cigar that he 
was rather chewing than smoking. 

“Do you? I don’t,” was the defiant reply. “I 
neither regret the mistakes of the campaign nor glory 
in its victories. Life’s a game as well as a battle. 
One must not be too elated with victory, nor whimper 
over defeat. The great thing is to lose with a laugh 
and win without a smile. ’ ’ 

Mr. Renshaw rolled a cigarette as he spoke, with 
the grace and skill of a Spaniard. 

“ If I had lived in the days of Claude Duval,” he 
5 


THE VICAR 


went on, ‘ ‘ I should have been what they called a 
gentleman of the road, and if I had been a good sailor 
I would have been a pirate on the high seas.” 

” Making your final exit at Tyburn, eh ?” 

‘ ‘ I should have taken the chances. I am taking 
them now. In those days, when you retreated, you 
had not to run as far as is necessary to-day. You just 
changed your road from Hounslow to the Midlands, 
and from the Midlands to the North, gradually work- 
ing back again to Hampstead, taking Bath by way of a 
breather en route. ’ ’ 

“You seem to have studied what they call the good 
old days, Jim ?” 

“Yes, know them backwards, sea-sharks and land- 
sharks, down to Jack Sheppard and Jonathan Wild,” 
replied Jim ; “and there was always a sneaking Jew 
on the scene, as there is just now with me — and you 
too, Tom.” 

“You mean old Abrahams ! Oh, as men go, he’s a 
good sort, I think. Any fellow that lends another fel- 
low money when he’s hard up is entitled to be treated 
with respect.” 

‘ ‘ Abrahams has grown rich on usury. ’ ’ 

“He must be an abnormally clever Jew if he can 
make anything out of such clients as you and me.” 

“Nonsense, it is such as us that fill his pockets. 
He has made an income out of me these five years. ’ ’ 

“ Really, I shouldn’t have thought it,” said Tom. 

“ No, you’re not a fellow to look below the surface ; 
you are one of the easy-going sort, come-day, go-day ; 
but you’ ve got a good backer, you see. ’ ’ 

‘ ‘ My dear old misguided father ? It might have 
been better for me if he had possessed a wider knowl- 
edge of the world and less confidence in his only son. ’ ’ 
6 


THE VICAR 


‘ ‘ He is certainly rather verdant ; but you have 
always an open road of escape from your troubles. ’ ’ 

‘ ‘ Have I ? Will you be good enough to point it 
out on the map of my destiny ?’ ’ 

“ The Vicar’s ward, your chaste Susannah.” 

“ The most forlorn of forlorn hopes !” said Tom. 

‘ ‘ Why ?’ ’ asked his companion, stretching his legs 
across the fireplace, where half a scuttle of coals was 
trying to burn its way through a pyramid of cinders. 

‘ ‘ I don’ t know that she cares a button for me, and 
she doesn’t fetch me one bit. Mind you, she’s pretty 
and dresses well and has a pleasant manner ; but I look 
upon her as a kind of relation ; I was never in love 
with her, never was in love with girls, always with 
women. ’ ’ 

‘ ‘ Lady Berwick is not a girl and would be a catch ; 
but in your shoes I should first go for Susannah Wood- 
cote. ’ ’ 

“It is a religion with my dreamy old governor that 
she shall marry any one but me, that is if the other fel- 
low is a gentleman, loves her honestly and is worthy of 
her.” 

“ Poor dear old Vicar.” 

‘ ‘ Once Lady Berwick had the temerity to hint at 
me as a match for Susannah, and he flew at her ; never 
saw him really angry before. No, my friend, Susan- 
nah is a trust, she and her fortune, and my father 
would think it a breach of honour to give me a chance 
at it.” 

“ Hum,” said Jim, lighting a fresh cigarette, “ it’s a 
pity the little girl at the Homestead is not rich.” 

‘ ‘ What do you mean ?’ ’ 

“What I say, pity she has not money.” 

‘ ‘ Whom do you mean ?’ ’ 

7 


THE VICAR 


“ Lizzie Melford.” 

“And who told you about Lizzie Melford?’^ asked 
Tom, rising from his seat. 

‘ ‘ The letters you left lying on your table the other 
day.” 

“You don’t mean to say you read them ?” 

‘ ‘ I thought you placed them in my way for no other 
purpose. She writes a good letter.” 

“You ought not to have read them,” said Tom, 
with a passing frown. 

“The truth is when I did so I said to myself, ‘ Tom 
ought not to show me all his love letters.’ ” 

“You are certainly original in your views of social 
ethics,” Tom replied, laughing in spite of himself. He 
was not altogether sorry to have an excuse for telling 
his companion in profligacy what a dark-eyed beauty 
Lizzie was — of all his conquests the most desirable ; 
though he feared it would end badly. 

“Why, of course it will,” said the other ; “every- 
thing connected with women ends badly. ’ ’ 

“ I sometimes think it was an unfortunate thing for 
me that my mother died before I could have the bene- 
fit of her good influence. ’ ’ 

“Oh, oh !” laughed Jim, “he wants to tell the judge 
and jury that he was deprived in early youth of the ten- 
der care of a loving and religious mother. ’ ’ 

“ You are a fiend, Jim, a fiend !” 

“ So was Mephistopheles, but he gave Faust a good 
time, didn’t he? I am not as exacting as Mephistoph- 
eles. I would like you to marry well, live gloriously, 
and go to heaven at last — and I have helped you to 
understand and enjoy the delights of the town, eh, 
not to mention our trip to Paris ; now, have I 
not ?” 


8 


THE VICAR 


“Yes,’’ said Tom. “Open a bottle of fizz; the 
thought of it makes me thirsty.’’ 

Jim opened a bottle of champagne that stood handy 
with others on a slatternly side-board, and emptied it 
into a couple of pewter mugs. Tom touched the other’s 
cup as he drank, and Jim said, “ Success to roguery’’ 
— it was a common toast among the set they knew best 
— drunk by some for mere bravado, youngsters who 
thought it the thing to seem devils of fellows, and by 
others with a right down hearty relish. 

“It seems to me, Tom, that you have educated your 
father badly. I wish I had had such a father. ’ ’ 

“You could not have made a more cruel use of his 
kind heart than I have. It cuts me to the quick when 
I think of it. Oh, yes, I have my remorseful moments. 
I sometimes wish I had never seen Lizzie Melford ; 
then I am mad that I can’ t stand up and say, ‘ This is 
the girl I’m going to marry !’ ” 

‘ ‘ Stuff ! One doesn’ t marry that kind of girl ; the 
daughter of your father’s servant, and without a penny. ’ ’ 
“No, of course not,” said Tom. “Mind you, I 
never promised her I would. ’ ’ 

“You are not always so scrupulous.” 

“You seem to be rubbing it into me to-night, Jim ; 
is it for my good, or what? It doesn’t tend to raise 
my spirits. And I’ve been thinking a lot about my 
father to-day. I’m well on the way to bring his grey 
hairs to the grave, as they say in that old book you and 
I know too little about.” 

“Oh, is that your mood? Very well, old chap; 
you will be free from to-night to study it and reform, so 
far as I am concerned. I’m off in the morning.” 
“Off?” 

“Yes. We’ll take our last chances at poker and 
9 


THE VICAR 


crack our last bottle on this side of the Atlantic to- 
night. I sail to-morrow afternoon for New York, I 
and my wife. ’ ’ 

“Your wife ?” 

“ I forgot you didn’t know that I was married. You 
are such a taciturn chap. You never asked me if I 
was single or married. ’ ’ 

‘ ‘ Never asked you ! Poor creature, what a time she 
must have had !’ ’ 

“Now you understand why I have quitted your fas- 
cinating society once a week or so. ’ ’ 

“Once a month, you mean.” 

‘ ‘ Oh, you have noticed my goings and comings, 
then. The truth is, Tom, my bolt is shot ; my game 
is up. I must change the scene of my operations. 
America offers a wider scope for such talents as I pos- 
sess ; and, besides, old Father Abrahams has got me 
in a cleft stick. You are entitled to my confidence, 
and I know you won’t betray me. Besides, I want 
your assistance. Y ou have heard me speak of Haxell ?’ ’ 

‘ ‘ The man you hate ?’ ’ 

‘ ‘ No ; the man who hates me. My wife was Mrs. 
Haxell. At least she said so. I cut Haxell out. Lat- 
terly he has made a heap of money in Afrikanders. 
He was always a knowing chap. As for me, I never 
could get on in the City. ’ ’ ' 

“ Nor I ; nor anywhere else, for that matter.” 

“Oh, come ! You have done well at odd times on 
the Turf ; and you are lucky at loo, not to mention 
poker ; but America’ s the home of poker, and I flatter 
myself I know the game. ’ ’ 

“Yes?” said Tom, with a languid note of interro- 
gation, his mind just then at the vicarage of Comber- 
ton, — such a contrast to the den he occupied in the 

lO 


THE VICAR 


Temple, with pipes, sticks, guns, boxing-gloves, cards, 
overcoats, rugs, portmanteaus, pictures of ballet-girls, 
and flash French prints as decorations, and Jim Ren- 
shaw for his companion — ^Jim, a young man, with hair 
that was prematurely grey, heavy jaw, bright eyes, a 
sensual mouth, a strongly built frame, and a not un- 
pleasant manner, and with a powerful influence over 
Tom Hussingtree. Tom was the only son of one of the 
dearest and kindest clergymen that ever lived, unso- 
phisticated, genial, true to his mission, of generous and 
liberal instincts, handsome, distinguished, a man of 
honour, and by birth and training a gentleman. 

‘ ‘ But this is what I want to say, Tom. We have had 
a good time, have seen life — you wanted to see it, you 
know, when we met two years ago at Oxford — and the 
race is run. This day fortnight the first of my last series 
of bills becomes due ; and it is in the hands of Maxell.” 

‘ ‘ But ’ ’ 

“Yes, I know. I have had no dealings with any 
other than Abrahams. He has sold my paper to 
Maxell, who is going to give himself the treat of a 
vengeful action. Well, she is worth it, and I didn’t 
behave too well ; who does when there’s a woman in 
the case ?’ ’ 

“No, who does?” said Tom, with a sigh. 

“ Now you are thinking of Chloe, otherwise Lizzie 
M. I know you are. Well, marry her, or trans- 
plant her. If all you say is true, she might be worth 
the sacrifice ; young, pretty, a shining light in Lady 
Berwick’s Sunday-school, and loves you madly !” 

‘ ‘ I could never settle down and live with her as a 
fellow lives with his wife. I don’ t know why I couldn’ t, 
but somehow nothing contents me for more than a day 
or two together ; I begin to think it’s remorse.” 


CHAPTER II. 


STUDYING FOR THE BAR AND MATRICULATING FOR 
THE DOCK. 

“Remorse be hanged !” exclaimed Renshaw, with 
an ironical laugh. “It’s luxury, the restlessness of 
the spoiled child, the vanity of the buck, the love of 
conquest. All the women say you are devilish hand- 
some ; and so you are, Tom. If I possessed your in- 
nocent smile, I’d have married a duchess and been a 
lord lieutenant of my county by now — wasn’t Pitt 
Premier by the time he was my age ?’ ’ 

“Don’t be a fool, Jim. If I had your abilities, I 
would not be dodging creditors, haunting gambling 
hells, and calling it studying for the Bar ! By Jupi- 
ter, sometimes I think I am matriculating for the 
dock !’’ 

‘ ‘ My abilities ! And where have they brought me ? 
To the feet of my bitterest enemy, with my bills in his 
pocket !’’ 

“Well, he can’t hang you. They don’t even im- 
prison fellows for debt any longer. ’ ’ 

“If we had lived in the days we were talking of he 
could have hanged me, and to-day he could make it 
penal servitude.” 

“What!” exclaimed Tom, starting to his feet. 
“You don’t mean to say 

“That is exactly what I do mean to say. Two of 
them are forgeries, and you have backed them — the 
one more particularly that comes due this day fortnight 
12 


THE VICAR 

— accessory after the fact, or something of the kind 
they call it.” 

‘ ‘ Do you claim that I am responsible with you ?’ ’ 

“No, Tom, not that; you can easily prove your 
innocence ; but ” 

“ What is the amount?” 

“Five hundred pounds.” 

‘ ‘ And the other one ?’ ’ 

“Two hundred ; a mere bagatelle once, but latterly 
r ve no luck ; any fool can play me. ’ ’ 

‘ ‘ And Abrahams knows of the forgery ?’ * 

‘ ‘ He can square the drawer, who will swear the 
signature is his own ; but it will take more than I can 
raise in a year, and Fm sick of the infernal thing ; it’s 
been on my back this three months. If I got out of it, 
Haxell would hunt me to death. He carries too many 
guns for me at present. I must retreat. Lend me a 
hand, and, as there’s a heaven above us, I’ll send you 
the first pile I make on the other side ! And now, 
come out. Let’s try our luck once more at Hallette’s ; 
there’s big company there. Who knows? Sometimes 
it is the last throw that redeems all ; I’ve known it so 
at Monte Carlo more than once. — Come on, old fellow ; 
and we’ll finish up at the Soho, the one Club left that 
the police don’t raid and where a gentleman may break- 
fast in peace after an all-night sitting.” 

“I think Lady Berwick will lend me the money,” 
said Tom. 

‘ ‘ Why, of course she will ; you paid her the two- 
fifty?” 

“ Yes ; and she seemed' surprised, I am bound to say. ’ * 

‘ ‘ Didn’ t want it, eh ?’ ’ 

‘ ‘ Pretended she had forgotten it. Open another 
bottle, Jim ; you have upset me awfully.” 

13 


THE VICAR 


“I knew I should,” Jim replied, twisting the wire 
of a bottle of Mumm and dragging the cork out with a 
vicious tug. “Fm upset myself. It’s devilish hard 
to have to go into exile. Where is your friend, the 
charming widow, now ?’ ’ 

‘ ‘ Lady Berwick ?’ ’ 

“Yes; my Lady of Powyke, as you sometimes 
call her,” Jim replied, filling up his own and Tom’s 
beaker. 

“ Oh, she’s at home, I suppose.” 

‘ ‘ Grosvenor Square ?’ ’ 

“No, Powyke House; she always goes there at 
Easter and stays until the middle of May, when she 
considers the London season is in full swing and she 
cuts in with her big receptions. ’ ’ 

“I’ve often thought if ever I married ” 

“You said you were married,” interrupted Tom. 

‘ ‘ I mean in downright earnest. Then I think I 
should marry a widow. In love, the Frenchman says, 
old wood burns better than green. It would be a fine 
partnership, you and Lady Berwick. She would take 
care of you. ’ ’ 

‘ ‘ I should as soon think of proposing to — well, 
heaven knows who ! — as to approach Lady Berwick. ’ ’ 

“You have borrowed money from her?” 

“She’s an old friend, and before I asked her for that 
two- fifty she had encouraged me to do so ; said she 
knew the Vicar didn’t allow me enough, remarked that 
the Vicar didn’t know the world, and so on.” 

‘ ‘ And she must think you a good deal of a goose 
not to have at least done a youngster’s homage to her 
beauty. Ah, well, for some fellows the tide is always 
at the flood, and they let it run. She didn’t like me. 
I must have been a good deal of a mug the night you 

14 


THE VICAR 


took me to dinner. Has she ever mentioned me to 
you ?” 

“Yes, several times.” 

“ Warned you against me?” 

“Yes.” 

‘ ‘ Of course. I might have known that. She is 
not the immaculate Madame you believe down at Com- 
berton-cum-Besford. What a deliciously innocent old- 
world name for a place ! No, Tom, she is not all the 
Vicar’s unsophisticated fancy paints her. You see, we 
know each other at sight, we men and women of the 
world, we intriguers, we who make life our pastime and 
not our misery. There is a freemasonry among clever 
people ; and Lady Berwick and I are clever people. 
Oh, yes, we are. She has been more successful than 
I have. But she’s a woman ; a woman has so many 
chances. And now she’s a widow. Oh, the privi- 
leges of the widow ! What’s this new photographic 
machine, the Something rays? Well, the widow and I 
can see through each other without any such scientific 
interposition. ’ ’ 

‘ ‘ I think I am beginning to see through a brick wall 
a little further than I used, Jim,” said the younger of 
the two, with a forced laugh. 

“Time and patience built the Pyramids,” said Jim. 

‘ ‘ I wish I had cultivated the art of patience ! Come 
out, old chap ; let’s do something. What’s the good 
of sitting here, discounting the impossible ?’ ’ 

“ All right, Jim ; you’ve made me feel that I don’t 
care a brass farthing for anything or anybody to-night. 
— Here’s to Fortune ! — a short life and a merry one, as 
your model swell of the road has it.” 

Tom emptied the remainder of the wine into the 
pewter mugs, and, without waiting for his companion to 
IS 


THE VICAR 


join in the toast, tossed off his liquor and dragged an 
overcoat from a peg behind the door. Jim Renshaw 
gathered his thick tweed cloak about his shoulders, and 
presently the two adventurers were running before the 
wind — for Newgate eventually, Tom said, with a hollow 
laugh — but for the moment to one of the few notable 
gambling clubs of the Metropolis where baccarat, loo, 
and poker are still played without restriction. 


i6 


CHAPTER III. 


“and learns too late that men betray.” 

It was the kind of cottage that Birket Foster loved 
to paint. Nature, and an unconscious feeling for art in 
the builder, had composed the picture. It was a dream, 
such as townsmen have, of rural beauty, gathered from 
illustrated magazines and pictorial annotations of Gold- 
smith and Miss Mitford. The surrounding hills and 
trees vignetted it against the sky, and it had an atmos- 
phere of its own, perfumed with gillyflowers and a sug- 
gestion of fresh milk and butter. Constable would have 
found the subject lacking in boldness. ' It would have 
been too pretty for him, the backing of elms too soft in 
their Spring buds, the lilacs too bushy, the thatch too 
trim, and the whole scene wanting in ruggedness ; 
though to one heart, at the opening of this story, it 
was sombre enough ; to one heart the sunshine of it 
had faded, the sweetness of it had suddenly become a 
bitter memory. 

The Vicar was proud of the cottage. He loved old 
things ; had a Conservative feeling for thatch and tim- 
ber, for old window-seats and raddled flower-pots, for 
rosemary and thyme, for wall-flowers, single tulips, 
hollyhocks and herb-gardens. All these were in per- 
fection at the Homestead ; and he was continually 
offering the old-fashioned garden as an example to his 
man at the Vicarage, who prided himself upon a higher 
order of horticulture in competition with his rival, the 
head gardener of their neighbour, the Lady of Powyke. 
2 17 


THE VICAR 


One meets with what is called the timbered house 
right through the heart of the Midlands ; and Macfar- 
lane’s cottage, otherwise known as the Homestead, was 
a picturesque example of the old English style. 

Under the management of David Macfarlane, the 
Reverend John Hussingtree, Vicar of Comberton-cum- 
Besford, farmed some hundred acres of arable land. 
The Homestead boasted a dairy and a kitchen-garden 
that might have rivalled the Home Farm of Lord 
Cleeve’s fine establishment, some dozen miles beyond 
the Breedon Hills. 

The Homestead spread its thatched porch and its 
two rustic wings over a spacious plot of land. It was 
a two-storey house, with a quaint old parlour and a 
spacious kitchen that gave evidence of housewifely 
management and a generous landlord. Though the 
Vicar was tenant, freeholder, owner, and everything to 
the Macfarlanes, their Providence in fact, he had come 
to be regarded as little more than landlord by his bailiff 
and manager, David, and his old servant’ s second wife. 
The Vicar was an indulgent master, but Macfarlane was 
scrupulously honest and made the little farm a profitable 
enterprise. 

What might be called the gem of this timbered cot- 
tage, the heart and soul of the rustic setting of thatch 
and cross-beams, of orchard and garden, was Lizzie 
Melford, Macfarlane’ s step-daughter, dark as a gypsy, 
vain, frivolous, self-denying, naturally clever, fond of 
finery, a daughter of Mother Eve, but gifted with too 
generous a disposition for her own welfare. Beauty 
and generosity combined have proved sorrowful endow- 
ment to many loving women. 

“It’s very hard on both of us,” Lizzie was saying 
to Tom Hussingtree on a Spring afternoon, sitting in 
x8 


THE VICAR 


the parlour of the Homestead, while Mrs. Macfarlane 
had gone to the Vicarage, and David, Lizzie’s step- 
father, was making the best of his way to Powyke 
House, whither he had been summoned by his sister 
Keziah, who w^as the confidential maid of Lady Ber- 
wick. “ I don’t know what to do !” 

She looked up into the young reprobate’s face, the 
tears trembling in her eyes. “ I sometimes think I’ll 
kill myself ; then I try to forget all about it, and fancy 
it is a dream. ’ ’ 

A pitiful apologetic kind of smile crept into the cor- 
ners of her handsome mouth, and Tom stooped to kiss 
her. 

“Ah, you do love me, Tom !’’ she said. “ Couldn’t 
we be secretly married? I would never tell, and it 
would be a great comfort to me.” 

“ It would be sure to get out,” he replied ; “and, 
besides, I haven’t a penny in the world. I’m a good 
deal of a scamp, Lizzie ; my father may live twenty or 
thirty years yet, and I’m up to my head and ears in 
debt, both at Oxford and in London. I hate myself, 
Lizzie. ’ ’ 

He did nothing of the kind. He loved himself, even 
better than his dead mother had loved him, if that were 
possible. 

“ I don’t want to drag you down, of course, Tom,” 
said the generous girl ; “I quite understand what a 
mistake it has all been. I’m glad my father is not 
alive to know of my disgrace ; he was very proud and 
passionate, my father.” 

‘ ‘ But it need never be known ; it can be managed. 
I’m sure,” he said, sitting by her side and looking 
steadily at his boots. 

“ Oh, Tom !” she exclaimed, laying her head upon 
19 


THE VICAR 


his shoulder, ** couldn’t we go away to some far coun- 
try and live together? I would work for you, slave 
for you, do anything you wished, never trouble you, 
and away beyond the seas you would be free of your 
debts, and, who knows, you might become rich, as 
others have done — look at Jonathan Corbet, who went 
away with Kitty Welsh, only six years back ; they 
saved, and he has come home to Comberton and bought 
Perry House Farm.” 

Lizzie Melford had never before been so loquacious. 
Her tongue ran along as if it would never stop. 

‘ ‘ Besides, dear, I do try to give you up, to feel that 
you must marry in your station, as you have said. I 
know from the first you never promised to marry me, 
Tom ; I know, dear, though I had a hope you might. 
Don’t be impatient with me. It was enough that you 
loved me, and I was so ignorant of the world ; so very 
ignorant, never further from home than Wulstan, and 
it was so heavenly to sit and hear you tell of Oxford 
and London, and to meet you without any one know- 
ing, and my mother is such a trial, and has been ever 
since she married again ; why she married David Mac- 
farlane, to go and despise him the next minute, is a 
mystery to me.” 

Then she burst into tears and sobbed, and almost 
immediately wiped her eyes and laughed and begged 
Tom not to mind her, she was not quite herself, hadn’t 
seen him for more than a fortnight, and in all that time 
he had only once left a little note for her in the alder 
tree, where Time had made a letter-box for them, and 
Tom had dropped notes therein for his ” Dearest” and 
she had replied to them through the same medium. It 
had all been so romantic and sweet to her — and so cun- 
ning and devilish on his part, though he was perhaps 
20 


THE VICAR 


less vicious than thoughtless and selfish ; it had seemed 
to him a feather in his cap to win this pretty creature, 
who was the rural belle of Comberton, sang in the 
choir, taught in her humble way at Lady Berwick’s 
Sunday-school, and was so dainty, piquant, and un- 
worldly. 

“ Look here, Lizzie, my girl, it’s no good going on 
like that. We’ve got to face the music, as an Ameri- 
can friend of mine says ; and I’ve explained the situa- 
tion to you. You must go on a visit to Granny Dene, 
not for a day but for a week or two — by the way, what 
relation is she to you ?’ ’ 

“She’s my father’s grandmother; I’m her great- 
grandchild.’’ 

‘ ‘ She must be very old. ’ ’ 

“ Not so very ; but so good, I could never dare to 
confess my shame to her. ’ ’ 

“ But when you have met me at Wulstan you have 
said you had been there.’’ 

“Yes, I know ; and I have only been on a visit to 
the poor old dear about three times in my life. ’ ’ 

“I’ll go and see her, and arrange it ; Macfarlane’s 
my friend, and I believe I can get him to help me.” 

Lizzie hid her face in her hands and slipped into the 
corner of the settle near the fireplace, overcome with 
shame at this suggestion of making her step-father 
acquainted with their secret. Tom did not allow the 
manifestation of her anguish to interrupt his proposals. 

“You could easily say you were not feeling well, 
and Macfarlane could be of opinion that a change of 
air would be good for you ; and I could get Granny to 
send a letter inviting you there — and you could either 
go there or somewhere else, and 

But Lizzie was not listening. She had flung her 
21 


THE VICAR 


apron over her head, and was weeping silently but per- 
sistently. Tom was not used to this kind of emotion. 
Hitherto Lizzie had faced her trouble with courage, if 
not always with cheerfulness. He hated tears and fuss, 
and he told her so. 

“It’s no good, you know, Lizzie : it’s a bad busi- 
ness, but it might be worse, and I’ll never desert you, 
whatever happens. You will always have my love, 
don’ t you know, and all that. ’ ’ 

She made no reply, only rocked herself to and fro. 

“You are quite wrong, you know, in thinking that 
I am likely to marry Miss Woodcote ; there is not the 
slightest chance of that. ’ ’ 

“ She’s very rich ; you could pay all your debts,” 
said the girl. ‘ ‘ I know it is not for me to stand in 
your way. ’ ’ 

“ I don’t care a button for her ; she’s a prim Miss 
Nancy, and the Vicar would never hear of it. Besides, 
I don’ t know that I shall ever marry anybody. ’ ’ 

‘ ‘ Supposing I were rich ?’ ’ sobbed the girl. 

‘ ‘ But you are not, Lizzie ; and your being poor 
would make no difference, if I were only rich myself 
instead of being just dependent on the Vicar, and no 
good at anything ; couldn’t earn my living anyhow, 
unless I became a stable-help or a steeple- chase rider, 
or something in that way. ’ ’ 

Lizzie went on rocking herself and trying to think 
of some way out of the maze in which her thoughts 
were wandering. 

‘ ‘ My dear Lizzie, mind you, I have not said I won’ t 
marry you — some day !” 


22 


CHAPTER IV. 


“JOVE SENT HER A CHAMPION.’* 

T HE heartless scapegrace expected this burst of gen- 
erosity to bring her to her feet and straightway into his 
arms. It did not. 

“The Vicar will be so disappointed,” she said, 
dropping her apron and wiping her eyes, ‘ ‘ and my 
mother’s pride will have such a fall ! I don’t know 
that I care for myself very much ; it is all my own 
fault, I know that — all my own fault, silly, vain idiot !’ ’ 

“ Don’t say all your own fault ; I am most to blame, 
but it was impossible to resist your bright eyes and 
your sweet lips. ’ ’ 

“ Oh, why did heaven make women such poor crea- 
tures !” 

‘ ‘ And men such damned cowards !’ ’ exclaimed a 
strong voice that struck them both like a blow. 

“Luke Fenton !” exclaimed Lizzie, starting to her 
feet. 

“Aye, Luke Fenton,” said a man who had opened 
the door so quietly that they were unconscious of his 
presence until he had spoken. 

“ You scoundrel !” said Tom, facing him. “What 
do you mean ?’ ’ 

“ What do I mean?” said the man, with slow delib- 
eration. “ I mean that you are a damned scoundrel, 
and I’ve a mind to break every bone in your body !” 

Tom sprang forward at the challenge, but Lizzie 
stood between them. 


23 


THE VICAR 


“ For God’s sake !” she said, clutching the man by 
the arm. “ Luke ! oh dear, Luke, don’t !” 

“Let him go,’’ said Tom; “two can play at his 
game. ’ ’ 

“Yes, but only one at yours, you blackguard — step 
another yard nearer, and I’ll kill you !’’ 

Lizzie flung herself upon Luke, and Tom stepped 
back. There was that in Luke Fenton’s eye and man- 
ner that might have made an honest man quail, let 
alone Tom Hussingtree. 

“ Begone, before I do you a mischief !’’ said the 
man. ‘ ‘ Get out of this. Heaven may help me to 
calm down, but not yet. — Out you go !’’ 

“ Go, Tom,” said Lizzie ; “go, dear ; Luke is mad ; 
for my sake, go. I will come to you. ’ ’ 

“For your sake,” said Tom ; and 'he walked down 
the garden-path, among the bordering beds of gilly- 
flowers, daffodils, and primroses, with as much dignity 
as he could command ; it was not much. 

“ What do you mean by this?” said Lizzie, turning 
upon Luke as soon as Tom had disappeared. 

“What do you mean, that’s the question?” 

‘ ‘ How dare you come and make such a scene ?’ ’ 

‘ ‘ How dare you make it possible ! Oh, Lizzie, I 
would have lost you a thousand times, done time for 
you, as the convicts say, anything but to know what 
you have sacrificed to this brute, and to hear how he 
rewards you !” 

“You had no right to hear; you are an eaves- 
dropper. ’ ’ 

“It is the bitterest eaves-dropping I am ever likely 
to do, if I live to be a thousand, which, thank God, is 
impossible. And I loved you, Lizzie ; loved you, 
doated on you. Great God ! What have I not done 
24 


THE VICAR 


to win you — worked, read, studied, sat in classes at the 
Sunday-school, given up public-houses, taught myself 
all manner of things, saved money out of jobs done for 
folk in the village, mended their shoes, cleaned their 
clocks, done gardening, kept books, and all the time 
my inclinations have been far from such work — but my 
heart was here. If I had had a rival and he had beaten 
me, won you, got you honestly, and you had preferred 
him, it would have been hard to bear ; but to have you 
made common, to be the sport and toy of this flip- jack, 
this cur in broadcloth, this skunk, who has not even 
the manliness to protect you, and, if he did not make 
you his wife, to shield you from the cruel world, to be 
kind to you, to sympathise with you — why did I not 
strangle him where he stood ?’ ’ 

Luke’s passion gradually spent itself in words. He 
burst into tears ; and Lizzie looked at him in fear and 
trembling, and her heart was touched. 

“ Oh, Luke, forgive me !” she said. “ It breaks my 
heart to see you cry ; a man’s tears are tears of blood. 
Oh, Luke, I am unworthy of them !” 

‘ ‘ Don’ t speak to me !’ ’ was all he could say, con- 
vulsed, as he was, with grief. “ Don’t speak to me ; I 
shall get better soon. I pity you.” 

She went to the window and looked up at the sky. 
A thrush was piping his heart out to his mate in the 
elms that shaded the cottage. 

She could not bear it. Everything was so bright. 
The sun was going down in a glory of gold. The 
perfume from the garden met her. It should have 
crept into her soul like a benediction ; it afflicted her 
like a curse. 

“I’m sorry my passion got the mastery of me,” 
said Luke, in a humble tone of voice. “I’m not 
25 


THE VICAR 


given to such moods. You must let me help 
you. ’ ’ 

“ Oh, no, I cannot.” 

“You must. I can do it now, coolly and workman- 
like, as if you were only an ordinary friend.” 

“What do you mean?” 

‘ ‘ What I felt for you, up to half an hour ago, has 
passed out of my heart, but there remains the kind of 
pity, the kind of love the Saviour felt ; it is above all 
considerations of self and the world, and I will protect 
you, Lizzie Melford, and shield you, and ” 

“ NO; no, Luke ; it must not be ; I am not worth 
your consideration. I shall manage. As one makes 
one’s bed, so one must lie upon it. I thank you all 
the same, Luke. I wish I could have loved you, you 
are a good man. ’ ’ 

‘ ‘ Nay ; I am what you have made me, Lizzie. But 
for you, I should have been a village loafer, perhaps a 
drunkard — worse, who knows ? — for my temper rides 
me hard, even now, with all the restraint my love for 
you has taught me to put upon it. ’ ’ 

‘ ‘ Luke, let me kiss your hand, ’ ’ she said ; and she 
covered his great brown hand with her tears. 

“ Don’t, dear — don’t !” he said. “I’ll go now, but 
I’ll come again. Have no fear. I’ll stand by you.” 

He closed the door softly behind him, and, seeing 
Mrs. Macfarlane coming up the garden-path, he left by 
the kitchen and went towards the village, under the 
elms. He was a man some ten years older than Lizzie 
Melford, respected by everybody, and known to be 
over head and ears in love with Lizzie, and with very 
little chance, it was thought, of making any lasting 
impression on that fickle coquette, for so she was re- 
garded. The men admired her, the boys were in love 
26 


THE VICAR 


with her, and most of the women envied her — some of 
them hated her. 

She rivalled the Vicar’s ward in beauty, though it 
was of an entirely different type. There is the beauty 
of the rose and the beauty of the lily. There is the 
flower that you gather : ‘ ‘ Smell it, kiss it, wear it — at 
last throw away. ’ ’ 


27 


CHAPTER V. 


cupid’s post-office. 

‘‘Am I to understand that I follow ye?” asked 
David Macfarlane, as he paused on the threshold of the 
drawing-room at Powyke House to address his sister 
Keziah, who had preceded him from the butler’s pantry. 

“ Yes ; ye needna’ be afraid ; my mistress wants to 
see ye,” Keziah replied, turning her diplomatic face 
upon him with an expression of impatience. 

“My buits are nae clean,” said David, apologeti- 
cally, entering the room with a hesitating step, and 
surveying what he conceived to be the holy of holies 
sacred to the Lady of Powyke and her most intimate 
guests. 

“Ye are nae sae particular at the Vicarage,” said 
Keziah, with a snap of her thin lips. 

“I’m mair familiar wi’ his Riverence,” David re- 
plied. “ I nivver thocht to mak’ the acquaintance of 
Lady Berwick in her ain apairtment.” 

“Her ain apairtment!” said Keziah, scornfully. 
“You’re a very simple man, David.” 

“ And I ken the Veecar a’maist like a freend ; and 
Tobias Frost, the English butler, is that respectfu’ to 
me, I might be the Veecar’ s equal, instead of his gar- 
dener and manager of his wee bit fairm.” 

‘ ‘ Stop ditherin’ wi’ yer hat, and sit doon, ’ ’ said 
Keziah, indicating a Chippendale arm-chair that was 
standing upon a Persian rug, which looked the richer 
for its border of parqueted floor. 

28 


THE VICAR 


“Sit upon sic a thing as that!” said Macfarlane, 
with a fearsome look at the chair and its artistic en- 
vironment. “Eh, but what for d’ye bring me into 
sic an apairtment as this ; kitchen’s the place to see 
me in whateffer, or at the maist hoosekeeper’s par- 
lour. ’ ’ 

‘ ‘ The kitchen !’ ’ exclaimed Keziah. ‘ ‘ As if Lady 
Berwick had been in the kitchen in a’ her life, beyond 
Christmas time, and Easter may be, when she’s not in 
town ; the kitchen ! Sit ye doon, I tell ye, David, 
and make yersel’ at home.” 

‘ ‘ The mischief be on yer ain head, Keziah, if I 
break anything.” 

‘ ‘ The kitchen, indeed !’ ’ repeated Keziah, setting 
her cap to rights by the aid of a mirror, that to Mac- 
farlane’ s eye only repeated the room in a bewildering 
vista of tables, cabinets, and pictures. “D’ye think 
I’ve been my lady’s confidential maid a’ these years, 
and know her history backwards, and I canna’ ask my 
ain brither to sit doon in the drawing-room when she 
wants to talk wi’ him ?’ ’ 

“It’s true I’m yer brither, Keziah, but my poseetion 
isna’ what yer ain is, and I’ve nae yer capaceety to 
rise in the world ; and besides, ye’ re just a toon lady ; 
ye gang to London ance or twice a year, and are that 
grand ye’ve lost the music o’ yer native tongue, and 
the manners o' the Sooth seem to come to ye natural ; 
but it’s different wi’ me ” 

“ What’s the good o’ talking in a language naebody 
understands? I dinna’ love Scotland the less that I 
speak English.” 

“Nay, but I just mak’ a compromise mysel’; it’s a 
kind of a mixture that I’m speaking ; they’d find it 
deeficult to compreehend me at hame, and I dinna’ 
29 


THE VICAR 


make mysel’ understood to some o’ the ignorant bodies 
o’ Comberton.” 

“Ye did very well to leave home, David. The 
happiest part o’ my life’s been spent this side the bor- 
der ; though I used to enjoy the days the late Sir 
Leicester Berwick had his shooting-box and we spent 
August and September among the hills and the 
heather.’’ 

“Quay’,’’ said David, with a groan that did not 
mean suffering, but joy. “ Ou ay’, it was just fine 
that. I mind me, when I was a lad I was caddie to 
Maister Macnamara, and when the golfing was nae on 
I went oot wi’ the dog-cairt and Maister Sandy, the 
keeper, to the moor near by auld Macgregor’ s cottage ; 
d’ye mind the spot, Keziah?’’ 

“ Right weel, David,’’ said Keziah, with a smile in her 
light blue eyes, that rarely laughed, except in a diplo- 
matic way when she was in council with Lady Berwick. 

“ Ou ay’,’’ said David, with another unctuous groan. 

* ‘ And if ye’ d been the shrewd man that Master Sandy 
was, ye’d have possessed a holding of yer own and 
been a keeper too, wi’ money laid up ; but ye never 
did keep yer eyes open, David, nor yer ears either, 
for that matter.” 

“Ah weel, it’s just as gude a thing to ken how to 
keep ’em shut sometimes,” Macfarlane replied, with an 
air of self-gratulation. 

“That’s true,” said Keziah ; “discretion’s a virtue 
with Lady Berwick ; bear it in mind, David, bear it in 
mind.” 

“ I dinna’ gainsay ye,” Macfarlane answered ; “and 
I wish ye could gie yer niece a wee bit o’ yer ain abun- 
dance o’ that grand commodity ; it would be a warld 
o’ use till her.” 


30 


THE VICAR 


“ Why, what’s the matter at the farm ?” 

“Weel, it’s Maister Tom,” said David, looking at 
his boots and the dusty mark they had made on the 
Persian rug. 

‘ ‘ The Vicar’ s son ?’ ’ 

Keziah spoke with a sharp accentuation of her super- 
fluous question, and a flash of colour illuminated her 
freckles. 

‘ ‘ Aye ; and do what I will, I canna’ help bein’ as 
fond o’ him as if he were my ain.” 

“Your ain, indeed ! It’s a good thing for the world 
at large that ye never had a son ; it’s bad enough that 
you’re step-father to a piece o’ vanity like Lizzie.” 

‘ ‘ I dinna’ feel the reesponsibility o’ a father till her ; 
and if I did, she’s ower michty to put up wi’ my 
authority.” 

“ Is Master Tom following her ?” 

“It’s keepin’ company her mither ca’s it.” 

‘ ‘ Keeping company ! How long has this been going 
on?” 

“A matter o’ months I’m afeared. Her mither 
thocht it was the shorthorns he came to see, and to me 
he was interested in the bit timber we was felling. But 
he’d just ither fish to fry, as the sayin’ is.” 

“ Does the Vicar know of it?” 

“ Nae : it’s just a great secret; and there’s ither 
secrets,” said David, again contemplating his boots. 

“Tell me all about it,” she said, in a quick, au- 
thoritative way, her arms akimbo and her eyes flash- 
ing. 

“It’s sair troubled I am,” said Macfarlane, not in 
the least responding to Keziah’ s alert manner. “I 
dinna’ ken which is the maist tae blame, but I’m think- 
in’ it’s Lizzie ; she leads him on, and she’s been 
31 


THE VICAR 


wearin’ roond her neck a bauble o’ gowd that he 
brocht her frae London. ’ ’ 

“ Lizzie’s a fool !” 

“ Her mither’s telt her sae mony’s the time, but she’s 
sae wi’fu’ ; and ye must admit she’s sae weel faured 
and has a lauch that’s like music,” said Macfarlane, his 
wizened face for a moment lighting up with a passing 
glow of appreciation. 

‘ ‘ Sae well favoured !’ ’ exclaimed Keziah, with a 
frown. 

“ And Maister Tom’s sae freendly, and I dinna' ken 
which is maist fond o’ him, she or mysel’.” 

“Nor which is the greatest fool among the lot of ye ! 
Why doesna’ Lizzie take pattern by her elders? I’d 
like to see Master Tom dare to gie me a bauble to wear 
round my neck !” 

“ Ou ay’,” said Macfarlane, with a chuckle, and 
though Keziah was not by any means without personal 
attractions to Macfarlane, she was “ a weird sister,” to 
quote one of his stock phrases, and he had always 
feared her. 

Keziah was a spare active woman of forty, with 
bright beady eyes, a strong chin and a sallow com- 
plexion. She became her position well as the maid of 
a clever, popular, and knowing lady, the Lady Bountiful 
of Powyke House and the mistress of an establishment 
in Grosvenor Square that was known to what is called 
‘ ‘ the smartest set in town. ’ ’ 

“There’s naething to be gained by keepin’ things 
back frae ye, Keziah ; sin’ ye ask the question. I fear 
it’s serious, what’s gaein’ on between them ; it’s maistly 
come aboot this last month that Maister Tom’s been 
doon frae London. When he is nae on hand at the 
cottage, he’s hangin’ aboot auld alder tree, i’ the 
32 


THE VICAR 


meadow ayont the garden ; and ance he took a letter 
oot o’ the hollow of it ; and I ken it must ha’e been 
frae Lizzie, and they’ve just made what they ca’s a 
Coopid’s Post-Office oot o’ that unsuspectin’ bit o’ 
timber. ’ ’ 

“ The deevil take Master Tom! I’ll ha’e a word wi’ 
him 1” 

‘ ‘ I fear he is nae the Christian young man he was, ’ ’ 
continued Macfarlane, his tongue wagging easily enough 
now that it had fairly started. ‘ ‘ He goes to White 
Hart mair than’s gude for him, body and soul, gamin’ 
and bettin’ ; and I dinna’ like the companions he brings 
doon frae London when there’s a run wi’ the Croome 
Hoonds that is convenient to Wulstan. But he has a 
brave cheerfu’ speerit for a’ that, and youth will be 
youth ; and I ken weel the time when I was a lad 
mysel’ ” 

“Oh, never mind that 1” said Keziah, interrupting 
him. “ That’s past and gone many a year. Just keep 
your mind on the present day and your eye on Lizzie 
— and watch that tree. ’ ’ 

“Coopid’s Post-Office?” said Macfarlane, the pride 
of authorship in his eye ; for it was a happy thought to 
so name the old tree with its natural letter-box. 

• “Cupid’s Post-Office!” exclaimed Keziah, turning 
upon him with a severe glance. “ I mean the alder 
tree ; it’ s nae sae light a matter that you should gie it 
a fancy name. ’ ’ 

“It’s naethin’ mair nor less. I’m thinkin’, for a’ 
that whateffer,” Macfarlane replied, hugging his origi- 
nal idea ; “and there’s nae fixed hours for claesin’ it, 
which is the deeficulty wi’ the ordinary Post. ’ ’ 

“Ootwi’ ye !” exclaimed Keziah, who lapsed into 
the vernacular when she was angry. “Oot wi’ ye ! 

3 33 


THE VICAR 


If ye will have it a post-office, ye just collect me the 
next letters, d’ye hear?” 

” Ou ay’,” said Macfarlane. “It is nae sae often 
they use it, ye ken ; it’s just for makin’ appointments. 
I’m thinkin’. Burbeck, the carrier, said he seen Lizzie 
wi’ Maister Tom at Wulstan day she was supposed to 
be gaein’ to see auld Granny Dene at Wichenford.” 

“And ye’ve been letting this gae on wi’out a word 
to me ?’ ’ 

‘ ‘ I thocht ye might ha’ e kenned a’ aboot it ; ye 
maistly ken everything.” 

“ I just ken ye for a fule, Mac, that’s what I ken,” 
said Keziah, very angry now. ‘ ‘ Bring me a report 
every day ; and watch that ’ ’ 

“Coopid’s Post-Office,” said Macfarlane, with a 
stolid look at his sister. ” Ou ay’.” 

” D’ye mark me?” 

” Ou ay’ !” 

‘ ‘ And ye’ 11 bring me every letter ye find ?’ ’ 

“D’ye think it’s richt to rob the Post-Office — I 
mean the alder tree ? Seems to me like forbidden 
fruit ; but ” 

“ Ssssh !” said Keziah, raising a finger. “Here’s 
my lady. The minute you’re away speed up to the 
Homestead and bring me the bauble thing ye tell of. ’ ’ 

“But ” 

“ Nae buts ; I’ve a purpose with it. I’ll have a word 
wi’ Master Tom Hussingtree.” 

She little dreamt that it had almost been ‘ ‘ a word 
and a blow’ ’ with some one else in that quarter. 


34 


CHAPTER VI. 


DAVID MACFARLANE IS CROSS-EXAMINED BY LADY 
BERWICK. 

Lady Berwick was one of those women in regard 
to whom men, quoting themselves to be “ as young as 
they feel,” add, with emphasis, “and a woman as old 
as she looks.” The Lady of Powyke, as they delighted 
to call her in the village of Comberton-cum-Besford, 
was, in appearance if not by years, entitled to be con- 
sidered an eminently marriageable lady. Though she 
had been twice widowed, she was all the more worthy 
of a high place in the marriage market, in considera- 
tion of the fact that her widowhood had on each occa- 
sion been consoled with a handsome fortune in lands 
and tenements and in what are called gilt-edged 
securities. 

Slightly above the medium height, she carried her- 
self with a certain grace of manner that was evidently 
natural to her, as indeed it is only fair to say was her 
complexion. She also wore her own hair, which was 
abundant and of a rich brown. It was dressed high 
upon her head, and was in striking contrast with the 
pearl-grey tone of her morning dress. 

The general impression conveyed in the expression 
of her face was that of a woman of social tact and en- 
ergy. Beautiful as a girl, she was handsome in the 
autumn of her days. Her step was firm, her manner 
graceful and alert. Her hair was her own ; it was rich 
and abundant ; her red lips were slightly parted, but 
35 


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with the capacity to shut down upon any scheme which 
her active brain might evolve and her judgment approve. 
Her teeth were white and not so regular as to suggest 
the dentist. 

In short, Lady Berwick was a handsome, lively, 
clever woman, who might have been thirty-five, but as 
a matter of fact was forty- five, with the energy and the 
ambition of her early youth even before she married 
her first husband, which was one of the follies of her 
girlhood, as she would explain to her friends whenever 
the subject of marriage cropped up, and when she knew 
that her plurality of husbands had, behind her back, 
been a subject of discussion. 

When she was more than usually daring, she would 
discourse upon the fame and fortunes of a certain 
countess, who had married four times and had been 
wooed by her fourth lover with as much fervour as that 
which had won her maiden heart. Like Lady Berwick, 
too, this countess had only one daughter ; but Lady 
Berwick rarely mentioned the fact that she and her own 
child had not got along well together, that Clarice pre- 
ferred to live with her aunt on the Continent and hated 
England. It may be as well that the reader should at 
once understand that Clarice has no further part in this 
narrative than this mere mention of her existence. 
Lady Berwick lived her own life in her own way irre- 
spective of any consideration for Clarice, who was 
amply provided for by her mother’s second husband. 
She had always been averse to her mother’s views of 
life and its obligations ; and indeed, acceding to Lady 
Berwick, was ‘ ‘ quite a prude, my dear ; might have 
been a nun if she had had sufficient self-denial, a quality 
she does not possess any more, my dear, than her poor 
father, who had such a dread of dying that he hastened 


THE VICAR 


his end by the very precautions he took to prolong his 
life.’* 

And this was the lady who sailed into her handsome 
wide- spreading drawing-room, on this April day of our 
history, to see David Macfarlane, whose presence she 
professed not to observe. 

Her ladyship’s drawing-room was not the conven- 
tional salon. It was parqueted, be-rugged, Chippen- 
daled, and adorned with delightful water-colour draw- 
ings ; but it proclaimed itself a serviceable apartment, 
not furnished for mere show ; a room to work and to 
live in, to lounge in and be lazy in also, if it so pleased 
its mistress and her guests ; but Lady Berwick was a 
busy woman, and there were a couple of escritoires in 
the drawing-room, with every appliance for epistolary 
work. They were both eminently artistic as cabinets 
of inlaid woods, and when open gave opportunities for 
a dainty show of stationery and works of reference, 
such as Court guides, peerages, dictionaries, lists of 
charities, and other volumes necessary to the work and 
play of a lady of fashion, who neutralised the frivolities 
of balls and receptions by philanthropic efforts to amelio- 
rate the distress of the poor and advance the social and 
industrial interests of her country. 

Whether Lady Berwick was quite sincere in her 
charitable work or not, she spared no pains to make 
it effective. Besides giving her personal attention to 
London schemes of charity when she was in town, she 
visited the sick at Comberton during her residence at 
Powyke House, attended the local Dorcas meetings, 
held stalls at the local bazaars, put in an appearance at 
the Missionary meetings, and in her own little chapelry 
of Powyke knew every man and woman and child, rich 
or poor. .J'here was no poverty in the chapelry of 


THE VICAR 


Powyke, because her ladyship played the part of God’s 
Providence to the whole district. And yet she devoted 
herself to an intrigue against the happiness of Susannah 
Woodcote, who was the ward of her dearest friend, the 
Vicar of Comberton-cum-Besford, with the worst arti- 
fices of a diplomat and the malice of a rival in love 
whose rivalry had been challenged by a coquette, in 
which she had not the excuse of Susannah’s conscious- 
ness of competition nor the challenge of an opponent ; 
for the Vicar’s ward was her friend, and a young lady 
of the most sweet and unsophisticated character ; but 
as to this, the reader will exercise his own judgment 
when the facts of the widow’s plot against Miss Wood- 
cote are in evidence. 

Lady Berwick laid aside an embroidered Cashmere 
cape as she sat down to her escritoire in the bay win- 
dow that looked across a level lawn, bordered with 
daffodils, crocuses, and white narcissi, over the Breedon 
valley that presently became almost a mountain slope, 
creeping gradually upwards in an undergrowth of nut- 
bushes, brambles, and bracken to a sky-line fringe of 
beech and fir. 

‘ ‘ Ah, Macfarlane, ’ ’ she said, with acted surprise ; 

‘ ‘ what has brought you here ?’ ’ 

She spoke in a pleasant voice, but with the faintest 
suspicion of affectation, and a certain elocutionary dis- 
tinction, the result of education rather than a gift of 
nature. It was a voice and manner that could be both 
imperious and commanding, and at the same time it 
could purr, as we shall see, purr and be soft, as it no 
doubt had been in the days when she w'as wooed and 
won by the two gentlemen who had succumbed to her 
various charms. But let it be understood at once that 
it had never been hinted, even by her severest critics, 
38 


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that her married life had been otherwise than pleasant 
to her several consorts. She had been the life and soul 
of the Society into which her husbands had introduced 
her, and was invariably a woman of a pleasant and 
lively temper. To be otherwise was to grow sour and 
ill-favoured, she often told her maid ; which was argu- 
ment enough to be cheerful and generous, if no other 
were available. Truth to tell, my lady was naturally 
of a sanguine and optimistic temperament ; but, as we 
shall see, a schemer nevertheless ; an intrigante^ and 
subtle in her dissimulation. 

‘ ‘ Keziah said ye wanted to see me, ’ ’ said Macfar- 
lane, rising from his seat, “ or I wouldna’ ha’ e ta’ en 
theleeberty — espeecially in yer ladyship’s best parlour. ’ ’ 

‘ ‘ Said I wanted to see you ?’ ’ commented her lady- 
ship, looking around for Keziah, who had quietly left 
the room. 

‘ ‘ Aye, yer ladyship, ’ ’ replied Macfarlane, with a 
defiant twirl of his cap, which he had picked up from 
the floor. 

“Oh, yes, I remember,’’ she said, with a smile. 
“ I have a little present for your step-daughter, Lizzie. 
She looked so very becoming in church on Sunday, 
and they tell me she is more than useful in my Powyke 
schools. ’ ’ 

“ She’s fond of the schule,” said Mac. 

‘ ‘ I hope she is not fond of that hulking fellow, Luke 
Fenton, who takes the liberty of doating on her, I am 
told, — at a distance.” 

‘ ‘ So they say, my lady. 

“ Well, let it be at a distance, such a sordid, money- 
grubbing, independent rogue !” 

“Nay, yer ladyship, Luke’s honest as the day, but 
he is a bit thrifty, small blame to him, and he’s nae 
39 


THE VICAR 

mair chance wi’ Lizzie than auld Noddlehead the softie 
o’ Comberton.” 

“ Very well, that’s all right. It’s so good of Lizzie 
to walk over to Powyke on Sunday afternoons and 
evenings, too, I hear, to help the little ones to read 
and write ; so very good of her. ’ ’ 

“ Me and Lizzie dinna’ get along too well, but she’s 
kind at heart, if she’s wilfu’, and I take it on mysel’ 
to thank ye for yer good opinion. ’ ’ 

“Not at all, Macfarlane,” her ladyship replied. 
“ Be seated, Macfarlane ; take this chair.” 

She pointed to an easy chair near her own, which 
Macfarlane sat upon without filling it. 

“And how is your wife, Macfarlane?” asked her 
ladyship, in the friendliest way. 

“ She isna’ exactly hersel’ the day ; she’s sair trou- 
bled with lumbago. ’ ’ 

“ Dear me ! I’m sorry.” 

“ It’s an awfu’ complaint whatefier.” 

‘ ‘ Warmth is the best thing for lumbago, Macfarlane ; 
let her iron it. ” 

‘ ‘ Iron her back, my leddy !’ ’ commented Macfar- 
lane, an amused smile lighting up his sombre features. 
“Eh, I would nae dare to say sic a thing till her; 
she’d be ironing me, and she’s a braw airm for hurling 
twa pund o’ iron at a mon !’ ’ 

“Very well, Macfarlane,” said her ladyship, with a 
laugh that gave him increased confidence in talking 
with her, “since prescribing for her is so dangerous, 
the secretary of our Matrons’ Benevolent Society, shall 
call upon her. The iron, she tells me, has already 
entered her soul , so ‘ twa pund’ of it may not hurt 
her head. ’ ’ 

“Eh, but ye’re a humorous lady!” said Macfar- 
40 


THE VICAR 

lane, with a grin that puckered his small eyes in theif 
deep settings. 

‘ ‘ And how are they all at the Vicarage ?’ ’ she asked, 
with a complete change of manner, sweeping aside 
Macfarlane’ s honest compliment. ‘ ‘ Is Lord Cleeve 
still with you ?’ ’ 

“Aye, and to a’ appearances he is nae inclined to 
gang hame.” 

“ Where did he come from to the Vicarage? From 
London, or from his place at Charlton-Cleeve ?” 

“Nae, I dinna’ ken; his valet brocht his luggage 
frae the Comberton station ; but I think his lairdship 
rode in on his bicycle.” 

‘ ‘ I was not aware that he cycled, ’ ’ said her ladyship, 
‘ ‘ a man of his years. ’ ’ 

‘ ‘ His years, my leddy ! He wad nae care to hear 
yer ladyship talk about his years. He’s ane o’ the 
youngest men I know, except Maister Tom.” 

“Old enough to be Master Tom’s father, I should 
say.” 

“I should hardly o’ thocht it, but yer ladyship 
knows best.” 

‘ ‘ How long has he been visiting at the Vicarage ? 
Must be nearly a month ?’ ’ 

‘ ‘ Mair than a month, yer ladyship ; off and on at 
least five weeks. ’ ’ 

“Must have arrived the day after I left for town ?” 

“Nae doot,” said Mac. 

‘ ‘ Quite five weeks, as you say, I went up for the 
First Drawing-Room,” said her ladyship more by way 
of communing with herself than in response to Mac’s 
calculation. 

‘ ‘ I shouldna’ wonder, ’ ’ he said. 

“ He must be very fond of the Vicar?” 

41 


THE VICAR 


“ Maist folk are fond o’ the Veecar,” said Mac, who 
began to feel himself on the defensive, without compre- 
hending what the fight was about. 

“You have every reason to be fond of him.” 

“ Ou ay’ ; and the Veecar has no reason to ha’e any 
ither feelin’ towards me,” said Macfarlane, bridling 
inwardly at her ladyship’s manner, which seemed to 
suggest that he was a dependent who gave nothing in 
return for his bread and his wage. 

‘ ‘ I am sure he has not ; and as you say. Lord 
Cleeve is an old friend of the Vicar’s.” 

“ I did nae say he was, yer ladyship, but he is, a’ 
the same ; and the freendship’s as much on one side as 
the other.” 

Lady Berwick was not as adroit as she had intended 
to be in getting at Macfarlane’ s knowledge of the situ- 
ation at the Vicarage, and it angered her ; which at 
once exposed her inquisitorial object in an interview 
which had puzzled Macfarlane the more when he found 
it had no reference to Lizzie and Master Tom. 

“ I suppose Lord Cleeve doesn’t care for the Vicar’s 
pretty ward?” she asked at last, in desperation dis- 
guised with a smile that put Macfarlane at his ease, 
since he felt that he had for the present done with 
“Coopid’s Post-Office” and the possible scandal that 
might arise out of its secret correspondence. 

“Are ye referring to Miss Woodcote?” asked Mac- 
farlane, to gain time for thought. 

“Yes — Miss Woodcote,” her ladyship replied, a 
little impatiently. 

‘ ‘ I shouldna’ wonder if he does, ’ ’ said Macfarlane, 
who felt that the information would not please her lady- 
ship and resented her manner towards him, though it 
had been pleasant enough for five minutes. “There’s 
42 


THE VICAR 


naebody that doesna’ approve o’ Miss Woodcote, and 
his lairdship is nae likely to be an exception. ’ ’ 

‘ ‘ Are they together much ?’ ’ 

“Maist a’ ways,” Macfarlane replied. “His laird- 
ship doesna’ seem to ha’ e any pairticular relish for his 
ain company.” 

“Indeed,” said her ladyship. “When you left 
them to come here, for instance ?’ ’ 

“ Weel, aboot half an hour before I left, Veecar and 
Miss Woodcote stairted off to drive here and ca’ on 
yer ladyship ; they hadna’ tel’t my laird ; but the 
minit he heerd, he had his horse oot and went gal- 
lopin’ after them as if he’ d been entered for a hurdle 
race, for he just took shortest cut across Veecarage 
meadows and doon the road paist the fairm.” 

Lady Berwick did not evidently consider it necessary 
to put on her best diplomatic manner with Macfarlane, 
or she unconscioasly allowed her annoyance and disap- 
pointment to get the better of her self-control. 

“Very well, Macfarlane,” she said, rising and speak- 
ing with a haughtiness of manner that brought Mac- 
farlane suddenly upstanding. “Tell your niece that I 
shall send her something. ’ ’ 

“Yes, my lady, thank ye, my lady.” 

“And I hope the lumbago will soon be better,” she 
continued, as she turned her back upon Macfarlane and 
busied herself with the papers on her desk. 

“Yer ladyship’s verra gude, thank ye.” 

‘ ‘ Is there anything else you wish to say to me before 
you go ?’ ’ 

“Nae,” said Macfarlane, drawing himself up pro- 
testingly, ‘ ‘ I didna’ desire to say anything to yer lady- 
ship — it was just Keziah that said ye’d like to see me.” 

“ Yes, yes,” her ladyship answered, and Keziah en- 
43 


THE VICAR 


tering the room opportunely, she turned to her and 
said, “ Keziah, give your brother the little present I 
bought for your niece.” 

Keziah had the parcel in her hand. 

” Here it is, David,” she said. 

“ Nae, ye’d better tak’ it to her yersel’,” said Mac- 
farlane, with offended pride. 

“ Take it,” said Keziah, in a whisper ; take it.” 

She thrust the parcel into Macfarlane’s unwilling 
hands. 

‘ ‘ Good-morning, Macfarlane, ’ ’ said her ladyship, 
without looking up from her desk. 

“ Gude day, my lady,” said Macfarlane, making for 
the door, and remarking, as he left the room, ‘ ‘ I wish 
I had nae come. ’ ’ 


44 


CHAPTER VII. 


THE widow’s plot. 

“ It’s as I suspected, Keziah,” exclaimed her lady- 
ship the moment Macfarlane had left the room ; “ Miss 
Woodcote is laying snares for Lord Cleeve.” 

“She’d never dare to do it,” Keziah replied; 
“she’s too modest and inexperienced.” 

“Ah,” said her ladyship, with a sarcastic curl of 
the lip, ‘ ‘ your modest and inexperienced young lady 
is often more daring than the widow who knows the 
world. She can say a risky thing with an air of inno- 
cence that has a special charm for some men ; and the 
sweet young ingenue knows it.” 

“But Lord Cleeve would never be caught by a mere 
gel, though some men are foolish about good looks.” 

“ Do you think Susannah pretty?” 

“Just a leetle, but not the sort of beauty for a 
countess ; that’s for such as ye, Ma’m. Why don’t 
ye take him in hand and marry him ?’ ’ 

“That’s easily said.” 

‘ ‘ And easily done, if ye like, Ma’ m ; ye said it when 
ye married yer first. ’ ’ 

“ I did ; that’s true.” 

“Ye said it when ye married yer second.” 

“I did.” 

“ Then say it again, and marry yer third.” 

‘ ‘ There would be no impropriety in taking a third 
husband,” said her ladyship, reflectively. 

“ Impropriety!” repeated Keziah, scornfully and with 
45 


THE VICAR 


a tone of reproach in her voice. “Ye’ve the example 
of the Countess of Carleton, who is still living, as 
happy a woman as one could wish to see with her 
fourth ; and you that young when you married your 
first that it needna’ count, nor the second for that 
matter. ’ ’ 

“You were with me when I was first married, 
Keziah. ’ ’ 

“And I’ll be with ye, I hope, when ye marry Lord 
Cleeve and wear a coronet, dear Mistress.” 

“You think that possible, with such a rival as Su- 
sannah Woodcote ?’ ’ 

“ If I betted, like that reprobate the Vicar’s son. 
I’d lay odds on ye, my lady. I’d begin this very 
season with an invitation to one of your receptions at 
Grosvenor Square, and I’d make his lordship fix the 
day when he could come, so that there would just be 
no mistake.” 

“ But he has been to Grosvenor Square.” 

“Once, just to a formal dinner. I should book him 
this very day for dinner, and a reception later, next 
month ; he’s sure to be in town. I heard your lady- 
ship say he ought to be in town now, attending to his 
duties in the House of Lords.” 

“You are always so thoughtful, Keziah, and with 
your eye constantly on the future.” 

“I’ve been maid to you, Ma’m, so long, and know 
your capabilities as well as if I could hear you 
think. ’ ’ 

“ I often wondered you never married, Keziah.” 

“ Nae, I have no gift of wedlock ; it’s not for every 
woman. Eh, but I’d like to see ye in a toilet made 
for what you call conquest and with all your diamonds 
on, receiving Lord Cleeve at one of your grandest 
46 


THE VICAR 


functions, as the Morning Post calls the parties at 
Grosvenor Square.” 

It occurred to Lady Berwick, as she listened to 
her maid, that if Keziah had been taught elocution, 
dropped all her Scotch accent, and made the best of 
herself, she would have been quite presentable in good 
society ; none the less so for a certain quaintness 
and individuality that often distinguish cleverness, and 
always, she thought, accompany genius. 

‘‘You like to see me in all my war paint, as Tom 
Hussingtree, that reprobate you mentioned just now, 
calls it ; don’ t you think I look very well as I am ?” 

Asking the question, her ladyship surveyed herself 
in the circular mirror that had bewildered Macfarlane, 
and which now exhibited her ladyship at full length 
but in miniature. 

‘‘You always look just fine in morning dress, Ma’m.” 

‘ ‘ Lawrence liked me in a morning dress. Let 
me see — was it Lawrence who proposed to me after 
breakfast, in a morning wrapper of figured cashmere ? 
Yes, it was Lawrence ; I remember it well ; it was 
made in Paris, by Madame Esse.” 

‘ ‘ I recall it, my lady ; the gown with the drooping 
sleeves. ’ ’ 

‘‘Yes,” said her ladyship, stepping a few feet back 
from the mirror. “ If I were a man, Keziah, I am 
just the kind of woman I should fall in love with.” 

She made this comment on the picture in the mirror 
with a ndiveU worthy of eighteen and the sincerity of 
conviction. 

‘ ‘ I thought I never looked better since I was a girl, 
when I came down this morning,” she continued. 

‘ ‘ If you made up your mind to be Countess of 
Cleeve, there’s nae obstacle in your way.” 

47 


THE VICAR 


‘‘Ah, but there is,” said her ladyship, with a sigh, 
as she sat down by the window and gazed out upon 
the bright Spring landscape. 

‘ ‘ An obstacle !’ ’ said Keziah. ‘ ‘ What ? Where ?’ * 

“ That sly little ward of the Vicar’s.” 

‘ ‘ Call her an obstacle ?’ ’ exclaimed Keziah, scorn- 
fully. “ I just call her a young thing.” 

‘ ‘ But youth has its own unrivalled attractions, 
Keziah ; it is no good denying that — and after all, 
Keziah, I am very much of a widow. ’ ’ 

“Just enough of a widow, my dear lady, to twist 
any man round your little finger, if you so desired ; 
just enough of a widow to give ye the fascination that 
young things never ken. The art of love comes with 
practice. ’ ’ 

“I’m afraid you are a designing, wicked spinster, 
Keziah. Is it Ovid you have been reading ?’ ’ 

“That’s him,” said Keziah, “the book with the 
clasp and the morocco binding. I never realised that 

love was such a recognised art before, but ’ ’ 

“There’s a carriage in the drive, Keziah,” said 
Lady Berwick, interrupting her maid’s literary rem- 
iniscences. “I can see it, beyond the Ten Acre 
Meadow ; it may be the Vicar ; look out and see. If 
it is. Miss Woodcote will be with him — perhaps Lord 
Cleeve also, since your brother says ‘ they’ re maist 
a’ ways together.’ ” And she mimicked Macfarlane 
with vicious point. 

“ Susannah is an obstacle,” she said to herself when 
Keziah had left the room and she listened for the wheels 
of the Vicar’ s carriage. ‘ ‘ The little minx ! There is 
only one way, — we must marry her to Tom. A far 
better match for her than Lord Cleeve, Both young 
and without experience — all the pleasant world before 
48 


THE VICAR 


them ; whereas I am both experienced and ambitious, 
know what are the rights of a peeress, and can never 
forget that before I married Berwick I had nearly won 
my lord ; yes, I feel sure of it. He was only the 
Honourable Fred Leggett then, with two lives between 
him and the peerage ; and Berwick was a knight and a 
millionaire. Fate gives me another chance — I must 
not fly in the face of Providence. No, my dear Miss 
Woodcote, my sweet and simple Susannah, you must 
marry Tom Hussingtree. . . . The first thing is to get 
them engaged. I think she likes Tom. I must tell 
her that he has not proposed from high motives, know- 
ing that she has money and he has none. . . . Tom 
hates the restraint of the Vicarage, and is hard up, — 
he is always hard up, — one of those young rips whose 
allowances, whatever they may be, fall short of their 
wants. . . . Yes, it is a shrewd plan of campaign, I 
think, ril play it like a game of chess, — and now for 
the first move, — we’ll call it the Queen’s gambit.” 


4 


49 


CHAPTER VIII. 


GIFTS AND COMPLIMENTS. 

“Yes, it is the Vicar, Ma’m. I can see his auld 
coachman’s red nose,” said Keziah, closing the door 
as she re-entered the room, fully prepared for some 
special command contingent thereon. 

“You don’t like the Vicar’s coachman,” said her 
ladyship, smiling. 

“He’s sae smug,” said Keziah, alert and at my 
lady’s elbow. 

‘ ‘ Be quick ; put these fashion-plates away. ’ ’ 

She pushed into Keziah’ s hands a pile of coloured 
plates and cuttings from the popular ladies’ papers of 
the day, which promptly disappeared in a convenient 
drawer. 

‘ ‘ And stuff the Sporting Life and The Tipster under 
the window-seat. ’ ’ 

Keziah obeyed, with a satisfied grin ; she loved 
mystery and intrigue. 

“Here’s the Guardian; lay it on the table, with 
the Athenceuniy the Quarterly Review y and the Ladf s 
Realm. ’ ’ 

Keziah artfully displayed these current publications, 
and with a deftness worthy of the highest diplomacy 
placed a paper-knife between the leaves of the Quar- 
terly. 

“And give me the Vicar’s last volume of sermons,” 
said her ladyship, composing herself among the cushions 
of a couch consecrated to contemplation. 

50 


THE VICAR 


“D’ye ever read the Vicar’s sermons, my lady?’’ 
asked Keziah, as she placed the darkly bound volume 
with its ecclesiastically decorated book-marker in her 
ladyship’s hands. 

‘ ‘ Why, yes, you know I do, almost every night with 
my glass of negus. Some ladies take a cigarette ; I 
prefer a sermon ; I sleep better. ’ ’ 

Keziah smiled upon her mistress approvingly, and 
a servant, knocking at the door and opening it, an- 
nounced the Vicar of Comberton-cum-Besford and 
Miss Woodcote. 

“Ah, my dear Vicar, how do you do?” exclaimed 
Lady Berwick, in her blandest accents ; “but where is 
our dear Susannah ?’ ’ 

“ Here I am,” said a sweet voice, “ I was speaking 
for a moment to Keziah and there emerged from 
the shadow of the Vicar’s portly form a pretty and dis- 
tinguished girl of some eighteen summers, in what the 
slang of the time would denominate a ‘ ‘ smart’ ’ walk- 
ing costume of almond cloth (the coat braided with 
gold), a sable collar and muff, and a hat that lifted the 
well-poised head of the wearer and gave dignity to the 
youthful figure. 

By portly, as applied to the figure of the Vicar, the 
narrator does not intend to suggest a smug, well-fed 
ecclesiastic, but a man of full height, well balanced on 
his feet, with a certain dignity of manner, and fulness 
more in the region of the chest than that part of the 
body which one signalises with the term aldermanic. 
He was a fine manly-looking clergyman, but with a 
gentle and courtly manner, a clean shaven intellectual 
face, grey hair that straggled somewhat about his ample 
brows, and a rich musical voice. For a scholar and a 
man who had distinguished himself at Oxford, he was 

51 


THE VICAR 


singularly unsophisticated, did not believe in the phe- 
nomenon of the New Woman, regarded it as mere 
journalistic cynicism, preferred the sewing-machine to 
the bicycle and the needle to the sewing-machine, ad- 
mired what he called the frills and furbelows of woman’s 
dress, abhorred the idea of cigarettes in the drawing- 
room ; and Lady Berwick, who always indulged in the 
daintiest Turkey weed before retiring, with or without 
her negus and with or without the soporific sermon she 
boasted of, never ventured to run counter to the Vicar’s 
prejudices if she could possibly avoid it. 

“Parson Hussingtree’ ’ as the villagers called him, 
“the Vicar of Comberton-cum-Besford’ ’ as they knew 
him in the capital city of the county — the faithful Wul- 
stan, of historic memory — was a typical Churchman of 
the old school tempered by the educational progress of 
the day, but with all the instincts of the traditional 
Vicar who considered himself the father of his flock 
and his conduct the standard of morals. 

At the same time he did not set himself up as worthy 
of saintship. He was not a severe disciplinarian ; was 
tolerant, generous, and human to a fault, but a hater 
of hypocrisy, and he resented cant just as much as if 
he were not in orders. He admired Lady Berwick. 
She took pains to compel his respect. She knew how 
to be an acceptable visitor among serious people, and 
how to enjoy the lighter society that she permitted her- 
self in London. She was eminently a woman of the 
world, a diplomat in petticoats, a widow of experience ; 
not what you would call a bad woman, and yet not 
what you would call a good one. 

If all is fair in love and war, the widow’s plot against 
Susannah Woodcote might be condoned on the prin- 
ciple — or want of principle — of that much-abused prov- 
52 


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erb ; but it was a war with love, a conspiracy against 
the grand passion, that in the opinion of an ethical jury 
of men and women would hardly be considered a holy 
campaign. 

‘ ‘ I am so glad to see you, Susannah — I wonder if I 
dare call you Sue ?’ ’ said the widow, laying aside her 
volume where the Vicar might by chance see it. 

“ I think you might,” said the Vicar, answering for 
his ward ; ‘ ‘ and permit me to say that we are very 
glad to see you ; it seems an age since you called at the 
Vicarage. We came to Powyke House to-day more 
particularly to thank you for the grapes you sent us — 
very early for grapes ; I fear you have made my gar- 
dener jealous, if the poor fellow can harbour a thought 
of you that is not respectful.” 

“Meaning Mr. Macfarlane?” said her ladyship, 
smiling. ‘ ‘ I have been prescribing for his wife ; ‘ lum- 
bago’ s an awfu’ complaint whateffer’.” 

It was a good imitation, and they all laughed heartily. 
Lady Berwick knew just how far she could go with the 
Vicar, and he himself, at the Literary Society of the 
village, had on many occasions given the community 
readings from the poets and from Scott’s novels, in 
which he had done more than suggest the characterisa- 
tion of the leading figures in his representations of the 
various authors, whose works he had done much to 
popularise in Comberton. 

‘ ‘ And while we thank you for the grapes, we return 
your basket,” said Miss Woodcote, presenting her 
ladyship with a bouquet of white lilac from the Vicar- 
age conservatory, that already announced itself in a 
rush of perfume that filled the sunny atmosphere of the 
room. 

‘ ‘ What lovely flowers !’ ’ exclaimed her ladyship. 

53 


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‘ ‘ Beautiful as the bearer. I don’ t know which to kiss 
first. ’ ’ 

“I am the oldest,” said Susannah, with a pretty 
curtsey intended to be in keeping with Lady Berwick’s 
somewhat florid welcome. 

“Yes, for the day only,” said the widow, kissing the 
fair flushed face of the maiden. “And now forgive 
me for one moment — I must finish a most important 
note I was just writing, when I laid down my book and 
you came in. I know you will excuse me, Mr. Hus- 
singtree. Keziah, give the Vicar the Guardian and 
the latest Quarterly ; and Susannah dear, here are The 
Century and the Lady' s Realm, they will amuse you, 
— and, Keziah, give Miss Woodcote the newest poet, 
you will find it on the little shelf yonder, with Brown- 
ing and the handsome American edition of Herrick.” 

“ Nay, don’t let us interrupt you,” the Vicar replied, 
as the widow sat down to her desk. “You are always 
so busy. I wish I had more ladies like you in the 
parish. ’ ’ 

He looked at his ward rather than to the widow for 
an answer. 

“Yes, indeed,” said Susannah, as she took the 
books and magazines from Keziah ; and the Vicar 
turned over the pages of the Quarterly. 

“One moment, Keziah,” said the widow, as she 
folded and directed a note which she had hurriedly 
written, and which she was not going to write before 
the Vicar and Susannah entered the room. It was a 
mysteriously worded billet-doux, familiar and affection- 
ate. She knew that Tom was sensitive as her debtor. 
It had occurred to her that he might for a moment re- 
gard a missive from her as a creditor’s letter, so she 
sweetened it with a tender flourish. 

54 


THE VICAR 


Keziah, in her silent manner, quiet but quick, went 
up to the desk and leaned over her mistress to take her 
whispered instructions. 

“Have this note sent to Mr. Tom Hussingtree at 
once ; he was trying a horse down in the Comberton 
Road half an hour ago, is probably at the White Hart 
by this time ; wherever he is, have him found ; I want 
him immediately.” 

“Yes, Ma’m,” said Keziah, leaving the room and 
closing the door without a sound. 

‘ ‘ I think that’ s a clever move, ’ ’ said her ladyship 
just as silently, “it opens the game boldly and then 
aloud, and rising from her seat, she said, ‘ ‘ I wanted to 
ask your advice about my schools at Besfordwick ; your 
son Tom — ah, what a fine fellow he is ! — has undertaken 
to superintend the erection of a gymnasium for me. ’ ’ 

“I fear gymnastics are too much in Tom’s line,” 
the Vicar replied, laying down the Quarterly and 
tucking his gold-rimmed glasses into his clerically cut 
waistcoat ; “all the triumphs he obtained at Oxford 
were in the cricket field or on the river. But I must 
not trouble you with a father’s criticisms ; fathers and 
sons invariably expect too much of each other. I 
think we must say good-morning now. ’ ’ 

“ I am rather triste to-day,” the widow replied, with 
an effective little sigh. “Will you not let Susannah — 
I must call her Sue — stay a little with me ? I will drive 
her home by and by ; I have some calls to make in the 
village.” 

“Oh, yes, by all means. And you shall not drive 
her home ; I have a few parochial duties that will oc- 
cupy me an hour or so, and I will come back for Susan- 
nah, and that will be another excuse to call and say 
good-morning again. ’ ’ 


55 


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‘ ‘ That’ s very kind of you, ’ ’ said the widow. ‘ ‘ I 
dare say Miss Woodcote and I may also find some- 
thing to do in the interest of Comberton.” 

‘ ‘ I am sure you will, ’ ’ the Vicar replied ; * * you are 
always scheming — for the good of others — not only for 
Comberton, but for Wulstan too, as I invariably tell 
your detractors.” 

The word scheming grated for a moment on the 
widow’s sensibility ; but only for a moment, and she 
said, with a smile that had a dash of well-acted pathos 
in its expression, ‘ ‘ Oh, yes, I have detractors ; but we 
cannot all be beloved as you are. I know some of the 
good people of Wulstan don’t understand me. I be- 
lieve they think I am positively wicked because I en- 
tertain in what is considered a rather liberal, some say 
a mixed, way at Grosvenor Square during the season. ’ ’ 

‘ ‘ I wonder the Chairwoman of the Matrons’ Society 
condescends to sit down with you, ’ ’ remarked Susan- 
nah, with a cheerful little laugh. 

“Nay, Susannah, my dear; Mrs. Errington is quite 
a broad-minded woman, I assure you. ’ ’ 

‘ ‘ Is she ?’ ’ said Susannah. ‘ ‘ I have heard her say 
that a theatre is the portal of the bottomless pit ; that 
was after we went to the charity performance at Wul- 
stan, you know, about which Mr. Zebedee Lipstock 
made a sermon on you, my dear guardian.” 

“ Ah, well, it is all in the way of his business,” said 
the Vicar ; “we must not mind trifles of that kind.” 

‘ ‘ I dare say Mrs. Errington gets over her disap- 
proval of me by praying for my dear little Sue. ’ ’ 
“There are many in Comberton, and in Wulstan, 
too, who have good reason to pray for you. Lady Ber- 
wick ; even the Matrons’ Society is deeply indebted to 
you for its power of benevolent usefulness — money may 
56 


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be the root of all evil, but it is also a very healthy root 
for good ; — good-bye, for the present. ’ ’ 

Lady Berwick rung the bell, and a footman, in a 
livery almost as sober as the badge of easy servitude at 
the Vicarage, opened the door for his reverence, who 
drove away in his landau, full of kindly thoughts about 
his wealthy parishioner. 


57 


CHAPTER IX. 


THE WIDOW AND THE MAIDEN. 

“Take off your hat, dear — would you like to go to 
my room ?’ ’ 

“No, thank you,” said Susannah, removing her 
pretty head-gear with a simplicity that was in striking 
contrast with her fashionable attire. 

“My love, your costume is a perfect dream,” said 
the widow. “May I ask the name of the artist — 
French, of course?” 

“I dare say,” Susannah replied, with a smile. “I 
think the Wulstan firm have a lady who is continually 
going to and from Paris. I fear what taste there may 
be in this costume is theirs. I really don’t take much 
trouble about my dress ; I find if I keep a little in arrear 
of the newest fashions I get along very well. ’ ’ 

“You are quite an oddity, Susannah; you never 
look your name. ’ ’ 

‘ ‘ Don’ t I ? How do you mean, Lady Berwick ?’ ’ 

‘ ‘ One thinks of a Susannah in a Quaker-like mode 
— I don’t know why — and you look more like a pretty 
Kate or a seductive Alice ; yet I would not have you 
called anything else. I remember not long since when 
we were talking of Christian names, the last time Tom 
Hussingtree dined here, he said he thought Susannah 
the most beautiful in all the calendar. ’ ’ 

‘ ‘ Really ! I had no idea that Tom would care to 
discuss such trifles.” 

“Oh, but Tom is not the mere sporting young 
58 


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fellow people think ; he is quite a sentimentalist, in his 
way. ’ ’ 

The widow drew Susannah towards her, and they sat 
together by the embers of a wood-fire that was burning 
in a quaint basket-like grate. The two brass dogs at 
the base of it were golden and bronzed in the glow of 
the cinders. It was a warm and sunny day, but Powyke 
House rarely let out its fires until the summer had 
fairly come to the valley and the distant hills. 

“And it is companionable,” said Lady Berwick, in 
reply to some remark of Susannah’ s. “I am lonely 
sometimes, and I see pictures in the fire and hear music 
in the burning logs.” 

“Yes?” said Susannah, looking into the white and 
red ash which the sun almost snuffed out. ‘ ‘ I should 
hardly have thought you had time for such fancies.” 

“ Nobody quite understands me. Sue, dear. Because 
I am cheerful and give myself a deal of unnecessary 
work, people think I have no heart, no sentiment, no 
illusions. ’ ’ 

“ Oh, that is not what I was thinking,” said Susan- 
nah. “ We all know what a kind heart you have.” 

* ‘ My dear, a widow has shadows in her life, if she 
loved her husband, that none but herself can feel or 
realise ; of course, that goes without saying, and I 
doated on my poor dear Sir Leicester Berwick ; he 
was a charming companion. But there, I did not ask 
you to stay that I might make you miserable. Come, 
tell me all the news — when does Lord Cleeve go to 
London ?’ » 

“I don’t know,” said Susannah. 

‘ ‘ He ought to be attending to his political duties. ’ ’ 

“ He does not care much about politics. He con- 
fessed to the Vicar the other night that he is sorry he 
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was raised to the peerage ; he could have been much 
more useful to the country, he says, continuing the 
work he was engaged in. ’ ’ 

“What, as Chairman of Quarter Sessions, member 
of the County Council, President of the County Hos- 
pital, and general county factotum ?’ ’ 

“Yes, I suppose so, besides assisting the Librarian 
at Wulstan, and writing up the history of the county, 
and all that kind of thing. ’ ’ 

“Not the highest ambition, eh? Do you think 
so?” 

‘ ‘ He says politics is a mere game of ins and outs. ’ ’ 

“ Lord bless us ! and he is tired of being with the 
Outs. It is always members of the Opposition, my 
dear, who hate politics.” 

“ Is it ? I did not know. The Vicar says he ought 
to be satisfied ; it is not as if he had to fight for his 
seat.” 

“No, he is an hereditary legislator. Perhaps it 
would be better if peers who don’t care to act might 
resign, like trustees to a will.” 

“Yes,” said Susannah, not quite following the 
widow’s comparison. 

‘ ‘ A mere game ! I dare say he is right, and not half 
so interesting as a game of chess — played as I some- 
times play it, with real figures.” She had nearly said, 

‘ ‘ with real men, ’ ’ and for the moment was slightly con- 
fused, and hurriedly added, ‘ ‘ And what is Lord Cleeve’s 
favourite study just now ? I don’ t mean in the way of 
sport, nor the potentialities of the wheeler or the motor 
car, or anything so frivolous as golf, but in literature 
and art?” 

“Oh, do you think him so very serious?” asked 
Susannah. 


6o 


THE VICAR 


“If he is not serious now, when is a man of his age 
to be serious ?’ ’ 

“ I never thought of him in that light.” 

‘ ‘ But he is grey, and already stoops a little in the 
shoulders. ’ ’ 

“ I’ve only seen him stoop when he is riding on his 
bicycle. ’ ’ 

“ I can never understand a man who loves horses 
riding on such a wretched invention as a bicycle.” 

‘ ‘ I used to dislike it very much, ’ ’ said Susannah, 

‘ ‘ but I begin to think I may one of these days Become 
quite an enthusiastic wheeler, like the curate’s wife.” 

‘ ‘ The curate’ s wife, my love ! If I ever had the 
slightest idea of sticking myself up on a wheel, the fact 
that the curate’ s wife goes careering about the country 
like a stork on a grindstone would make the thing 
impossible.” 

‘ ‘ Lord Cleeve says everybody begins his wheeling 
experiences by villifying the machine.” 

‘ ‘ Is that how he began ?’ ’ 

“Yes, and it seemed very undignified at first to see 
him riding on the Vicarage lawn.” 

“ On the Vicarage lawn ?” 

‘ ‘ He was showing me how easy it was ; but I did not 
find it so.” 

“Did you try on his machine, a gentleman’s 
machine ? My dear Susannah, you shock me !’ ’ 

“Of course I did not,” replied Susannah, blush- 
ing. 

“ My darling, forgive me,” said her ladyship, kissing 
the girl on both cheeks. 

' ‘ Still, I fear you will be shocked when I tell you that 
I took my first lesson on a wheel the curate’s wife lent 
me.” 

6i 


THE VICAR 


“ Really ? Well, you do surprise me ; and did Lord 
Cleeve give you the lesson ?’ ’ 

“Yes, and yesterday I rode with his lordship quite 
five miles ; the Vicar threatens to sell my mare, and to 
dismiss the groom. “ 

“Well, well, they call me a Radical, but when a 
Tory Earl and the ward of the Vicar of Comberton go 
about the country on bicycles. Democracy is levelling 
upwards instead of downwards ; but it is always the un- 
expected that happens, they say. Ah, well, let us get 
away from the vulgarities of modern locomotion and 
talk about books and the belles-lettres ; Lord Cleeve 
has always some serious study in hand, some great lit- 
erary project ; what is his latest fancy in that direc- 
tion ?’ ’ 

“ He is collecting old ballads for a work he is writing 
on chivalry,” said the maiden, her interest awakening 
in the conversation. 

‘ ‘ What a beautiful subject ! Has he read any of his 
work to you ?’ ’ 

“ Yes ; a great deal of it.” 

“Is it good ?” 

“ I think it is beautiful.” 

‘ ‘ Do you recall any part of it in particular that is 
beautiful ?’ ’ 

“Yes; there is the story of a maiden who had 
plighted her troth to a brave knight. They brought 
reports that he was false, dishonoured ; yet she still 
loved on, nothing could shake her faith. ’ ’ 

The maiden looked into the fire as she spoke, and 
the widow watched her with the eyes of a lynx. 

“Just as nothing would shake yours, my dear, if you 
gave your word, eh ?’ ’ 

‘ ‘ I hope I should be true ; but such a situation 
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is never likely to occur, dear Lady Berwick,” and the 
girl turned a smiling face to her hostess. 

‘ ‘ Of course Lord Cleeve has had what they call his 
affairs, and men of the world take a delight in contem- 
plating the ideals of their youth. ’ ’ 

” But do you call Lord Cleeve a man of the world ?” 
Susannah asked, turning once more to the fire, which 
by this time the sun had nearly burnt out. ‘ ‘ He does 
not talk like one ; he says there is nothing nobler in 
human nature than faith, nothing more beautiful in 
woman than to be true to her word. ’ ’ 

‘ ‘ That is very beautiful, ’ ’ said the widow, taking the 
maiden’ s hand and fondling it ; ” the idea of a woman 
keeping her word, even if she had to make great sacri- 
fices for the man to whom she plighted her troth. 
Should you through life act upon it ?’ ’ 

‘ ‘ I hope so, ’ ’ said Susannah. ‘ ‘ I should try, if I 
were put to it. ’ ’ 

‘ ‘ Dear little Sue !’ ’ said the widow. ‘ ‘ Have you 
never led any youth to believe that you cared for 
him ?” 

“Don’t ask romantic questions, dear,” replied the 
maiden. 

‘ ‘ Of course Lord Cleeve is old enough to be your 
father ; they say, by the way, he is to marry Sir 
Bradford Rolletson’s daughter — they are keeping it a 
secret at present — oh, he is a sly gentleman, my Lord 
Cleeve.” 

‘ ‘ Do you think so ?’ ’ 

“Indeed, I know it, my love. They say of a 
woman, fair, fat, and forty ; of a man they might say 
fickle, false, and fifty, dear. Not that I have a word 
to say against Lord Cleeve ; I like him immensely, 
admire him, think him awfully clever.” 

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THE VICAR 


*‘We are very fond of him at the Vicarage,’* said 
Susannah, thoughtfully. 

‘ ‘ When I asked you what you are pleased to call 
that romantic question, do you know of whom I was 
thinking ?’ ’ 

“No.” 

‘ ‘ Can’ t you guess ?’ ’ 

“I don’t think I want to guess, Lady Berwick.” 

“Don’t you, love? Shall I tell you? Yes, I will, if 
it is only out of kindness to him — it may be out of kind- 
ness to you, too, my love. Tom Hussingtree is des- 
perately in love with you. ’ ’ 

‘ ‘ Desperately in love with me ! Oh, Lady Berwick, 
what makes you say so?” the maiden replied, and 
blushed. 

‘ ‘ Why, all the young men in the county would be 
in love with you if they dared !’ ’ 

‘ ‘ But, my dear Lady Berwick ’ ’ 

“Nonsense, my love ; your father expected you to 
marry, you know, and it is the duty as well as the 
pleasure of a girl’s life. He left you an added fortune 
to the one you now enjoy on the day of your marriage 
— ^you know that, of course — surely the Vicar has told 
you ?’ ’ 

‘ ‘ The Vicar never talks to me of such things ; but I 
know my poor dear father provided for such a con- 
tingency. ’ ’ 

‘ ‘ Contingency, my dear — say blessing. Why, when 
I was your age I was the happiest little wife in the 
empire. ’ ’ 

She was nothing of the kind, if the truth must be 
told, and it may as well be mentioned, in an aside, to 
the reader. Her first husband was a brute, though she 
led him a dance ; and even Sir Leicester Berwick found 
64 


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her ladyship a good deal of a trial, though he wor- 
shipped the ground she walked upon, as he often told 
her, and indeed was her lover and slave to the day of 
his death. 

‘ ‘ All the young men in the county !’ ’ said Miss 
Woodcote, rather energetically. “I am very glad 
they dare not. ’ ’ 

“ Would it embarrass you ?” 

“It would make me very indignant.” 

“ Would it really?” 

“ Indeed it would.” 

‘ ‘ How temperaments in girls differ ! It would have 
delighted me at your age ; it would not have embar- 
rassed me nor made me indignant. Why, the cavaliers 
Lord Cleeve has been telling you about made their loves 
a toast, and even wagered on their constancy.” 

“You see. Lady Berwick, you were born in what 
you call the world, were you not ? In London ? That 
makes a difference, I dare say. I know no other house 
than the Vicarage, hardly any other city but Wulstan ; 
have only stayed in town on three occasions, have 
never ‘ come out’ as you call it, .nor travelled on the 
Continent. ’ ’ 

“My dear, you have been shamefully neglected.” 

‘ ‘ Don’ t say that. Lady Berwick. I am very 
happy. ’ ’ 

“ I wish Tom Hussingtree could say so.” 

‘ ‘ Why cannot he ?’ ’ 

“ Because he loves you, and is afraid to say so. He 
is wearing his heart out. ’ ’ 

“Afraid !” 

“Yes, dear; afraid.” 

‘ ‘ I had no idea he was afraid of anything, certainly 
not of so insignificant a person as me. You should 
5 65 


THE VICAR 


have seen him take a bullfinch and the river yesterday ; 
it made the Vicar’s heart stand still. Afraid ! Why, 
he rides a horse that even Dick the huntsman dare not 
mount. ’ ’ 

“ I have known a soldier who would ride up to an 
enemy’s guns, and yet would flinch before such a pair 
of eyes as yours, Sue. ’ ’ 

“They never made Tom flinch, I can assure you. 
But I wish he were a little more studious, for the dear 
Vicar’s sake, don’t you?’’ 

“ He would study and be all the Vicar could desire, 
if he were engaged to you, Susannah. ’ ’ 

‘ ‘ Engaged to me ! I thought you said you were 
triste and dull. I think you are in one of your merry 
moods. ’ ’ 

‘ ‘ Am I too merry ? lam always moved by the sight 
of young hearts in their first flutters of love. Confess 
now, you like Tom ?’ ’ 

‘ ‘ Why of course I like him ; who does not ? I be- 
lieve I like him almost as much as our dear gardener 
Macfarlane likes him ; and he says he would lay down 
his life for him. But I don’ t like him in the way you 
mean. ’ ’ 

“As you say,” went on the widow with warmth, 
“who could help liking him? A handsome, breezy, 
generous young fellow, the pride of his college.” 

“ I don’t know about that.” 

“I mean in the best sense — first on the river, a 
superb horseman, always good-tempered, possesses all 
the fine qualities of a young English gentleman. If he 
were to speak out now, what would you say ?’ ’ 

‘ ‘ Don’ t you think it would be just as well to wait 
until he does?” said Susannah, with a spirited ex- 
pression of manner that gave piquancy to the lovely face. 

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THE VICAR 


“ I am sure the match would please the Vicar,” said 
her ladyship. 

‘ ‘ Do you think so ?” 

“ I know it. Wouldn’t it please you, eh? Confess 
now. ’ ’ 

“ I will confess when Tom asks me,” said the 
maiden. 

‘ ‘ Check !’ ’ said Lady Berwick to herself ; but 
whether it was in her own favour or a move to the 
advantage of Susannah, at the moment might seem a 
matter of doubt. There was a certain defiant ex- 
pression in Susannah’s eyes that her ladyship may hav-e 
misinterpreted, though Susannah’s heightened beauty 
under the influence of newly aroused feelings gave her 
a shock of envy. 


67 


CHAPTER X. 


keziah’s word with tom. 

The personality of Susannah Woodcote was singu- 
larly attractive ; it was a sweet and elevating presence ; 
trustful, innocent, but with a longing expression in the 
eyes that would have been pathetic but for the natural 
cheerfulness of her disposition. 

From an intellectual point of view her face may have 
suffered in the estimation of the physiognomist on 
account of a certain roundness that was characteristic 
of her whole figure. She was fair, with a mantling 
colour that in moments of excitement spread beneath 
her eyes and enhanced their soulful expression. Her 
mouth was sensitive, with an occasional expression of 
something between laughter and tears. She was of 
medium height and carried herself with a natural grace- 
fulness. Her head was poised with a certain dignity 
that was in harmony with her mind and did not mili- 
tate from her generous and sympathetic nature. 
Reared, since a child, at a private school and the 
Vicarage, she had dwelt among people actuated by the 
finest moral and religious ethics but without any as- 
sumption of superior virtues and no taint of cant. She 
was the heiress of Spencer Woodcote, Esquire, of 
Woodcote-in- the- Valley, who had died in India when 
Susannah was only a child, her mother having pre- 
ceded him only a few months ; so that Susannah had 
been accustomed to orphanage and had found a second 
father and mother in the Vicar and his wife, the latter, 
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alas, having died a few years prior to this present nar- 
rative. 

It was almost on the words of Susannah, “I’ll con- 
fess when Tom asks me,” that young Hussingtree was 
announced by Keziah. He had come post-haste, in 
answer to Lady Berwick’s invitation. 

“And please, Ma’m, he says may he come in?” 

‘ ‘ How strange !’ ’ exclaimed her ladyship, rising. 
“Just as we were talking of him ; of course, he may 
come in.” 

“Forgive me,” said Susannah, laying her hand 
upon her ladyship’s ample sleeve, and detaining Keziah 
with a nod. ‘ ‘ I will go now, if you please. Keziah 
will show me out by the garden ; I can easily walk to 
the Vicarage.” 

“ My dearest, you shall do nothing of the kind. 
But I’ll tell you what you shalll do — you know I have 
to keep you until the Vicar returns — you shall go into 
the library until Tom leaves, or perhaps you may like 
to see him ; anyhow, come and let me show you some 
new books that came down from London yesterday — 
the new poet and George Meredith’s new novel — poor 
stuff, I think, but I am not intellectual, you know ; I 
prefer Rhoda Broughton ” 

While she was saying these things, she was leading 
Susannah into the library. Returning, she remarked 
as Keziah was showing in Mr. Tom Hussingtree, 

‘ ‘ I think that is not a bad move — we will call it the 
Queen’s gambit.” 

Tom Hussingtree, having shaken the dust of the 
Homestead from his feet, with well acted nonchalance 
swung into the room in a free, lounging manner, smil- 
ing familiarly at Lady Berwick, who lifted a rebuking 
finger at him as she went to her desk before greeting 

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him. She was always so busy, you see ; it was part 
of her ladyship’s system to be busy, to have endless 
letters to answer and innumerable businesses of a social 
and benevolent character to get through every day. 

“Your hand is feverish,” she remarked, as she laid 
her own in his dry palm. 

“ It isn’t late hours,” he said, with a bland look of 
pleasant confession. “ Really now. I’ve been awfully 
good of late. The truth is I rode over ; my mare is 
fresh and wouldn’t come by the road, preferred to 
take all the fences across the Vicarage meadows. 

“Oh, that’s all, is it? Feverish with the ride. 
Well, you would like a glass of bitter ale, I suppose?” 

“ I was just going to take the liberty of saying so.” 

‘ ‘ I knew it. Keziah, bring Mr. Hussingtree a jug 
of ale ; he’ll prefer it from your hands, don’t ring for 
John.” 

When Keziah had left the room, Tom said, “ It was 
very good of you to send for me — ^what is it ?’ ’ 

“Nonsense,” said her ladyship. “I did not send 
for you. But there, don’t talk to me just now ; I am 
very busy for a moment. Look under the window- 
seat yonder, and you’ll find the latest Sporting Life — 
amuse yourself with that. ’ ’ 

“All right. Lady Berwick,” said Tom, sitting down 
to study the sporting paper ; while her ladyship, after 
making real or imaginary memoranda at her desk, left 
the room, and presently Keziah returned with a silver 
tray and a jug and glass. This attention was a con- 
descension on her part, which she felt at the moment, 
but on other grounds than personal ones. There was 
nothing she would not do for her mistress, and she felt 
that making her footman, friend, and maid, all in one 
for the nonce, was done with some hidden purpose. 

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She knew Lady Berwick well enough to understand 
that she was in the midst of some scheme or other in 
which Keziah had her part and her work. At the 
same time she had resolved to let Mr. Tom Hussing- 
tree know what she thought of him and his visits to 
her brother’s cottage. Under a certain subservient 
manner, Keziah had plenty of fire and was not without 
courage. 

“Thank you, Keziah,” said Tom, as he drained the 
glass at a draught and refilled it. “ Hot work, riding, 
this morning.” 

“A word with you,” said Keziah, her face pale, 
her lips quivering. 

“Yes, Keziah, by all means : what is it?” 

“ Stop your visits to the farm, and put no more of 
your tomfoolery into that alder tree. ’ ’ 

“What farm, Keziah? What alder tree?” Tom 
asked, to gain time for thought, once more face to 
face with his villainy that seemed all at once to have 
begotten a sudden publicity. 

“What farm? David Macfarlane’s, otherwise the 
Vicar’s ; and what alder tree, ye ken very well.” 

‘ ‘ Does David object to my visits ?’ ’ 

“ Nae, the more’s the pity.” 

‘ ‘ Does Mrs. Macfarlane ?’ ’ 

“ Mrs. Macfarlane’s a frivolous body and daft.” 

It was on his lips to mention Luke Fenton, but 
discretion held back the question that trembled there. 

“Does Lizzie Melford complain?” he asked, defi- 
antly. 

“ Nae ; but I do.” 

‘ ‘ I don’ t go to the farm to see you, Keziah. ’ ’ 

“ But if you gae to the farm again, on your auld bad 
errand, you will see me,” said Keziah, white to the lips. 
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Shall I ?” said Tom, coolly flicking his boots with 
his whip. “ Then I won’t go, Keziah, — ^when you are 
likely to be there.” 

“And there’s the bauble you gave her,” said Keziah, 
taking a necklace from her bosom and flinging it at his 
feet. “Take it back, and gie it to some other poor 
fool.” 

“ I will,” said Tom, calmly picking it up and thrust- 
ing it into his coat-pocket. 

“Ah, I dinna’ doubt ye,” said Keziah. “You’re 
a fine thing to be the son of an honest and religious 
gentleman !” And she flung out of the room. 

Tom, with a sudden change of manner, following 
her retreating form and contemplating the door that 
she swung to with a bang, exclaimed, ‘ ‘ Ah, you cata- 
maran ! I’ll be even with you one of these days. . . . 
Yes, and with you, Mr. Virtuous Fenton. What the 
devil was the matter with me ? I would have backed 
myself to have smashed him in a single round, and I 
never got near him ! Is he so very virtuous, I wonder ? 
And Lizzie so very true ?’ ’ 

Having done the girl the foulest wrong, it was quite 
in keeping with such a nature as Tom’s that he should 
jump at the first possible excuse for doubting her. 


72 


CHAPTER XI. 


LADY BERWICK AND SUSANNAH. 

“Well, Mr. Tom, do you feel better after the 
athlete’s favourite refreshment?” 

“ Thank you, yes,” said Tom ; “but I didn’t know 
bitter ale belonged to that denomination of liquors. ’ ’ 

‘ ‘ Oh, no, you are very innocent !’ ’ And truth to 
tell, Tom looked as mild-mannered a hero as one of 
Bret Harte’s gentle six-foot swashbucklers. Indeed, 
Lady Berwick had been fairly impartial in her descrip- 
tion of his personal appearance — a breezy, handsome, 
well-set-up young fellow. So strange are the eccen- 
tricities of physiognomical development, that any one 
would have been justified in giving him a highly moral 
character, judging him by his open countenance, his 
frank manner, his handsome mouth, his eyes wide 
apart, and his free and careless gait. 

The only thing that could be said against this verdict 
was that his eyes were not quite steadfast. They were 
apt to wander when they should have been fixed upon 
the face of the person with whom he might be con- 
versing ; they shifted, were closer together than is hap- 
pily usual, and had a certain show of self-consciousness 
that might have been due to nervousness. 

But take him altogether, Tom Hussingtree was the 
sort of fellow you would look upon as the beau ideal 
of an Oxford student who did not study, the young 
Englishman who thought more of Dr. Grace than Mr. 
Gladstone, revered the memory of Archer the jockey 
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above that of Tennyson the Laureate, and to whom 
a spin across country was a greater delight than a 
spin through the finest poetry that ever was written, a 
freshly drawn tankard of bitter ale beyond all the wine 
that the rarest vineyard ever produced. . . . And how 
terribly mistaken you would have been, we know who 
have seen the Vicar’s son studying for the Bar in town, 
or, as he himself cynically but not without a touch of 
remorse described it, matriculating for the dock. 

Lady Berwick was quite aware that Tom was not a 
good young man. She did not like him any the worse 
on that account. She was not, herself, a good woman ; 
but she had no idea to what depths of degradation Tom 
was sinking or had sunk, and as yet she knew nothing 
of the affair at the Homestead. 

With all his liberality, she knew that the Vicar was 
inclined to keep Tom rather short of the allowance that 
a lively young fellow with expensive tastes would re- 
quire, and she felt a real pleasure in helping Tom out 
of his little financial difficulties. She called the sums 
she had lent him trifling amounts ; and so they were to 
her, but to Tom they were of vast importance ; and 
after his first plunge into the humiliating position of 
being her ladyship’ s debtor, he lost all sense of shame 
in the matter, and was quite willing to be her slave in 
that respect — or to be her lover, as Jim Renshaw had 
advised, but she had never given him the slightest 
reason to approach her on those terms. 

Considering how she fancied herself as a rival beauty 
to even the youngest belle of a London season, it must 
be said for Lady Berwick that she had treated Tom 
with a kind of maternal solicitude that was very credit- 
able to her, and this view had been strongly borne in 
upon the mind of the Vicar. “Young enough to 
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attract any honest man in search of a wife,” he had 
said, ‘ ‘ Lady Berwick has the modesty not to attempt 
to disguise the fact that, Tom being motherless, she is 
not too young to be his adviser, nor too old to be 
companionable with our dear Susannah. ’ ’ 

Lord Cleeve had not responded with alacrity to this 
remark, so the Vicar had emphasized his opinion by 
repetition. Lady Berwick knew exactly how the Vicar 
would like to think of her, and she played her part 
accordingly ; for his reverence was the acknowledged 
authority on conduct, moral, physical, and religious, in 
all the Powyke Valley, besides the wide parish of Com- 
berton-cum-Besford ; and even among county magnates 
he was a person of great consideration. 

“Oh, by the way, where is Keziah?” said her lady- 
ship, in that interrogative and busy mood that was so 
characteristic of her. 

‘ ‘ Here I am,” said Keziah, unusually alert and watch- 
ful when her mistress had any special business on hand. 

“ Excuse me one moment, Mr. Tom,” said her 
ladyship, going to her desk at the other end of the 
room ; Keziah following her, Tom once more burying 
his face in the sporting paper. 

“ Listen, Keziah,” said her ladyship, in a low voice. 

“Yes, Ma’m.” 

“ Go to the garden-gate. Lord Cleeve must pass 
that way if he has followed the Vicar, as your brother 
David said — open the gate suddenly when you see him, 
as if you were going out. He is sure to speak to you. 
Tell him your mistress is at home — and that Miss 
Woodcote is with her.” 

“Yes?” 

‘ ‘ Nothing more, Keziah. ’ ’ 

“ Very well, Ma’m,” said Keziah, leaving the room. 

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And thereupon her ladyship proceeded to play her 
next move. 

Well,” she said, “ Mr. Reprobate, what is a good 
thing for the City and Suburban ?’ ’ 

The question was a great relief to Tom, for, though 
on her lips the phrase ‘ ‘ Reprobate’ ’ was more or less 
one of compliment, just now it had for Tom himself a 
certain sting that penetrated the something that rnight 
be called his conscience ; it was only the smallest kind 
of hurt, but he felt it for a second, like the prick of a pin. 

‘ ‘ Why, Lady Berwick, ’ ’ he replied, with a smile, 
“ Nimrod’s the pick of the basket.” 

‘ ‘ Is basket a horsey term for a stable ?’ ’ 

“I mean he’s the best of the string,” said Tom, 
varying the metaphor, with a laugh. 

“Then you may put me a little fiver on Nimrod, 
will you ?’ ’ 

“ Will I? Delighted to have the honour ; and I’ll 
back your luck with a tenner myself. ’ ’ 

“ Don’t speak so loud ; Miss Woodcote is in the 
library. Just pop the Sporting Life under the cushion 
again. Nimrod is not the subject I want to talk about. 

I want you to think of appearances a little more in re- 
gard to Susannah.” 

“ In what way. Lady Berwick?” 

“Sit down, and I will tell you,” her ladyship replied, 
indicating a chair by the seat into which she settled 
herself as if for a long chat. 

“Thank you,” said Tom, looking at her ladyship 
with all the steadiness he could command. 

“Are you so blind that you don’t see how madly 
Lord Cleeve is in love with your father’s ward, and how 
she is getting to like his gentlemanly and considerate 

treatment of. ladies, his high moral tone ” 

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“His high moral bunkum — excuse me,” said Tom, 
interrupting her ladyship. 

“No, Tom, it is not bunkum! His courteous 
manner is quite natural to him, just as your brusque 
manliness is natural to you. While he rises into a 
heaven of culture, you descend to the vulgar earth. 
He has trained his horse on Mount Olympus ; yours 
has battened on Powyke Common. ’ ’ 

“ Never had any faith in Mount Olympus as a train- 
ing ground,” said Tom, dropping easily into the spirit 
of her ladyship’s similes, “and I don’t believe poor 
Archer ever had ; that is, if he knew anything about 
Mount Olympus, and both I and Susannah like Powyke 
Common. But what do you want me to do ?’ ’ 

“ Have you been riding lately with Miss Woodcote ?’ ’ 
“Not lately, no.” 

“She rides with Lord Cleeve instead of Tom Hus- 
singtree now.” 

“ Does she? Well, she’s a good companion on the 
road or across country, I will say that for her, a light 
hand, a firm seat, and knows no fear. She’s ridden 
since she was a child, and that’s the way to make a 
horsewoman. But, as I said before. Lady Berwick, 
what do you want me to do ?’ ’ 

“ Nothing but what is very easy,” she replied, at the 
same time pointing, in what Tom thought a rather mys- 
terious way, to the library door. “In that room is 
Susannah Woodcote, underneath the soft cushion is the 
Sporting Life^ just now on its way from the cellar was 
a jug of bitter ale, and at the present moment in your 
pocket. I’ll be bound, are a short pipe and a tobacco 
pouch.” 

“Well?” rejoined Tom, his face beaming with 
amused curiosity. “Well, Lady Berwick ?” 

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“Well, a little less Sporting Life^ a little less bitter 
ale, a little less tobacco, and a little more Susannah — 
that’s what I mean. She’s worth the sacrifice of the 
whole lot, for that matter, to a young fellow just start- 
ing life and with no settled prospects ; one of the pret- 
tiest girls in the county and fifty thousand pounds to 
her fortune, as the old chroniclers would have put it. ’ ’ 

“That’s true, no doubt,” said Tom ; “ but life with- 
out beer and tobacco ?’ ’ 

“ Wouldn’t be half as bad as all beer and no Susan- 
nah. Besides, you can educate a woman into beer and 
tobacco and backing the favourite, and even making a 
book, when she’s your wife.” 

“I suppose you can,” said Tom; “you ought to 
know. ’ ’ 

“ Did I, Master Impertinence? If I ought to know, 
then take my tip about Susannah, as you horsey men 
would say. You’ve seen the favourite beaten too often 
not to respect outsiders, especially when the dark one 
is of good pedigree. You are the favourite now ; but 
Lord Cleeve is going up in the betting, and may yet — 
as your friend under the sofa cushion would put it — 
reach very short odds.” 

“You are a very jolly sort — excuse a bit of slang — 
but you see ’ ’ 

‘ ‘ I ought to have apologised for my own slang ; that’s 
what you mean, I suppose. But what were you going 
to say ?’ ’ 

‘ ‘ That I never was more surprised in my life. I, 
Tom Hussingtree, the favourite ! Why, I am not en- 
tered for the race. You are talking of some other 
engagement and some other fixture altogether. ’ • 

“Not in the race! What do you mean? Why, 
didn’ t we discuss the possibilities of it long ago ?’ ’ 

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“Yes, and it was off as soon as mentioned. The 
Vicar would not hear of it ; and, besides, Susannah 
never cared for me, except as a friend, a kind of rela- 
tion,” said Tom, using the same argument that he had 
set up against the suggestion of Jim Renshaw — whose 
existence her ladyship seemed — fortunately, Tom 
thought — to have entirely forgotten, for she had 
never mentioned him since she had warned Tom 
to cut his acquaintance. 

“ Not entered !” exclaimed Lady Berwick, with well- 
acted astonishment. “ Not in the running ! What do 
you mean ? Susannah thinks you are. ’ ’ 

“Does she?” 

‘ ‘ Why, of course she does. Do you imagine I should 
have taken all this trouble, if I did not know that ?’ ’ 

“You generally know what you are about, I must 
admit. Lady Berwick ; but ’ ’ 

‘ ‘ But you think there are exceptions to that rule, and 
this morning’s business is an exception?” 

‘ ‘ I think you have made a mistake. ’ ’ 

“Then Miss Woodcote is to blame.” 

* ‘ How do you mean ?’ ’ 

‘ ‘ She has been talking of no one else but you this 
half-hour.” 

“ Really !” 

‘ ‘ I wonder your ears did not tingle ; your conscience 
certainly ought to have pricked you for neglect of her. ’ ’ 

“You astound me !” 

“ You have astonished her, poor child. It is not the 
woman’s place to make advances.” 

“ No ; but she might have given a fellow a lead.” 

‘ ‘ She must have given you many a lead, as you call 
it, that you have been too dull to take or perceive. 
You ought to be very proud to have won the love of 
such a girl.” 


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“Good heavens, Lady Berwick ! You don’t mean 
what you say ?’ ’ 

“ I never was more in earnest. I’ll go and fetch her. 
The rest I must leave to you !’’ 

And without another word Lady Berwick disap- 
peared, Tom rushing to open the door for her and 
being pleasantly repulsed. 

“ What a fool I have been !” he thought, as he paced 
the room, now pausing to look at a picture that he did 
not see, now going to the window without looking out. 

‘ ‘ I must indeed have been blind as well. A fool ! An 
idiot ! Fifty thousand pounds, and an additional 
twenty on the day of her marriage. But what will the 
Vicar say? Who cares, if she’s willing! It comes 
upon me — like backing some outsider at a hundred to 
one, and seeing him, after a bad start, dropping to a 
hundred to nothing, creep up to the post and win in a 
canter. . . . Not a bad sort, either ; rather prim, given 
to poetry, just a bit too religious, devilish pretty for 
that kind of girl ! Even that blackguard Jim, who 
never saw her nor the Vicar, had more prescience than 
I, and a keener appreciation of my chances. It stag- 
gers me I The idea only entered my head once — that 
was two years ago — and I don’t know that I’ve ever 
regretted that it was squelched right away. But sev- 
enty thousand pounds I By Jove, it is a lot of money ! 
. . . There’ll be trouble about Lizzie, of course. 
Every streak of good luck I have ever had has been 
wiped out by a stroke on the other side. Poor little 
Liz I But, confound her, what did she want to have 
that thief Luke Fenton hanging about for? What’ll he 
do, I wonder ? . . . What’ 11 she do ?’ ’ 

His thoughts were interrupted at this point by the 
entrance of Lady Berwick and Susannah. 

8o 


CHAPTER XII. 


“faint heart never won fair lady.” 

“Nothing like jealousy to fix a young man’s 
desires,” said Lady Berwick, when she announced to 
Susannah that Tom was in the next room, and ‘ ‘ raving 
against his own folly. ’ ’ 

‘ ‘ What folly ?’ ’ asked Susannah. 

‘ ‘ The folly of waiting until the danger of losing you 
should arouse his love into a passion. ’ ’ 

‘ ‘ My dear Lady Berwick, you must be mistaken, ’ ’ 
said Susannah, her .heart in a flutter, she hardly knew 
why. 

‘ ‘ No, it is you that are mistaken. Poor boy, with 
all his sang-froid^ and .his knowledge of the world, so 
much greater than your own, he has not dared to 
confess his secret to any one but me — poor me, who 
am evidently destined to be everybody’s confidante. 
My dear Susannah, Tom loves you madly ; the fire 
has smouldered these three years, to-day it is aflame.” 

Susannah had never before listened to such language 
as this, and Lady Berwick surprised her still further 
with a fervent kiss, as she went on to say, “It is not 
every marriage that is made in heaven, but some are, 
and in that case it is no matter what opposition may 
arise ; but there, I am saying too much. Come into 
the next room, and try to appear wholly unconscious 
of all I have said. ’ ’ 

Susannah suffered herself to be led into the drawing- 
room, in quite a sweet sisterly fashion, without under- 
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standing her frame of mind at the moment or attempt- 
ing to think about it, so completely had Lady Berwick 
for the time being taken possession of her. 

The widow paraded the maiden, full of the assurance 
of a winning game ; paraded her before Tom as the 
owner of the competitor for the Gold Cup she had 
talked of might parade what he considered to be “a 
certainty. ’ ’ 

All through her life she had rarely set her heart 
upon anything she had not achieved. Susannah out 
of the way, she felt as certain of Lord Cleeve as if he 
were already sitting at her feet. It is true she had not 
counted upon a factor in this present enterprise that 
she had not yet met in an opponent — namely, a fervent 
and heart-felt love. Lord Cleeve, however, hardly 
admitted to himself this feeling for the Vicar’s ward, 
though for two years it had tinged every action of 
his life. 

It had come to him one Autumn day in the Vicar’s 
garden, Susannah walking by the side of the clergyman 
among the last roses of the year, their leaves making a 
carpet upon which the Vicar and his ward paced up 
and down, while he (Lord Cleeve) read to them his 
favourite passages from “ In Memoriam.” 

As he read, the figure of the girl, her pathetic eyes, 
her soft footfall, her smile, had passed into his soul ; 
a something to be worshipped, a figure for the niche of 
a poetic thought, to develop later into a love too deep 
for words, and a love he dared not breathe lest the 
charm of it should be shadowed by the disparity of 
their ages, which had come home to him at Powyke 
House as a blow such as the merchant feels when he is 
told his ships have gone down at sea and he is beggared. 

And yet he conceived the idea that there was some 
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kind of binding link between him and Susannah that 
was a better and more beautiful thing than could pos- 
sibly be forged by Lady Berwick in the interests of 
Tom and what she called “young hearts.’* He rode 
these thoughts at a gallop, to suddenly drop into a 
walk, and sought his room — the guest-chamber at the 
Vicarage — with feelings too deep for tears, even if he 
had not been too manly to weep. 

“Ah, Susannah — so glad to see you,’’ said Tom, 
in his breezy manner. “Would you believe it. Lady 
Berwick, though Miss Woodcote and I may be said to 
live in the same house, since I left Oxford I haven’t 
had an opportunity of a chat with her — you’ll hardly 
believe it !’’ 

“Nonsense, Tom,” said Susannah. 

“I mean what you call a regular don’t 

you know.” 

“ Really!” said Lady Berwick; “ then you shall have 
one now. I am going down to the gardener’s cottage ; 
I want him to cut some flowers for the Vicar. Will 
you keep house for me while I am gone ? I shall only 
be a few minutes. Young people should be frank, and 
understand one another.” 

Then she kissed Susannah on both cheeks and with 
the alacrity of five-and-twenty tripped into the garden by 
way of the French windows that opened upon the lawn. 

“She is a jolly woman,” said Tom, looking after 
her; “isn’t she?” 

“Yes,” said the girl, “and a great admirer of 
yours. ’ ’ 

“ Ah I I wish you were, Susannah.” 

‘ ‘ And am I not ?’ ’ 

“ I don’t know ; I wonder I” he said. “ But won’t 
you sit down ?’ ’ 


THE VICAR 


He placed a chair near the fine old Italian fireplace, 
where the embers of the winter faggots were still 
smouldering and dividing the perfumes of the room 
and the outer garden with the flowers and the whole- 
some earthy smell of Spring. 

Susannah sat down. It was an easy- chair, low and 
caressing. It brought her face almost level with the 
fire, the glow of which was reflected in her eyes. 

“ ‘Young people should be frank, and understand 
each other,’ ” said Tom, drawing a taller chair by 
her side ; “we do understand each other, don’ t we, 
Susannah ?’ ’ 

‘ ‘ I am sure I hope so, ’ ’ she replied, turning her 
face towards him as he looked down into her eyes and 
without flinching, for he, too, alas ! was playing a game. 
Lady Berwick’s game — one of her pawns, or a more 
important piece. 

“ I can’t say fine things to you, like Lord Cleeve ; 
talking is in his line ; it comes as easy as — well, as easy 
as anything you can think of. ’ ’ 

“Well, and supposing it does?’’ said Susan- 
nah. 

‘ ‘ I don’ t know why I should object, but somehow 
I do. I think it is because — well, would you like 
me better if I were more like Lord Cleeve ; I mean a 
scholar, polished and clever at saying clever things, 
well up in the classics, and all that ?’ ’ 

‘ ‘ I should not like any one the less for being like 
Lord Cleeve ; but one had better be like oneself, don’t 
you think? I don’t want you like any one else. I 
have no great opinion of myself, but I don’ t want to 
be any other person or like any other. ’ ’ 

“No, of course not. You know, you are far cleverer 
than I am, Susannah, know a heap of things I don’t. 

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I never could bear to pore over tasks, but I was captain 
of everything outside college.” 

“Yes, I know. It is not everybody that has the 
gift of knowledge, I mean the knowledge that makes 
men famous in art and literature and politics.” 

” No, that is so ; but it is not to a fellow’s discredit 
if he has gifts, let us say, for the cricket field and that 
kind of thing ; and there’s one thing we should always 
agree upon; we both like horses; and I’m awfully 
fond of gardening and natural history, and wouldn’t 
you like to travel ?’ ’ 

‘ ‘ Sometimes I think I would, ’ ’ said Susannah. 

“Do you know,” said Tom, suddenly, ‘*1 have 
grown jealous of you ?’ ’ 

“Jealous !” she said, looking at the fire. 

“Yes, jealous,” he said, his voice a trifle hoarse; 
“jealous of everybody that looks at you, that speaks 
to you. Susannah, I am going to turn over a new 
leaf ; I’m going to study, to work. I feel at last a 
desire to fulfil the Vicar’s hopes for me, to make my 
way, to get on. ’ ’ 

He was acting splendidly. Perhaps he felt a throb 
of the action of the scene. He might well have done 
so, had he been the most hardened reprobate, looking 
down upon that lovely figure in its graceful pose, with 
the firelight in its eyes and the sun upon its rich brown 
hair gathered about the white shapely neck. 

“Yes,” she said, in a whisper. 

‘ ‘ But I need one thing, one incentive. ’ ’ 

He seized her hand ; she rose from her chair. 

“Your love, Susannah, your love!” And with 
well-affected passion he stole his arm about her waist 
and drew her into his arms. ‘ ‘ I love you ; be my 
wife!” 


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“ Let me go,” she said, struggling from his embrace, 
and bursting into tears. 

“You are angry.” 

“No,” she sobbed, “ not angry.” 

‘ ‘ I have offended you. ’ ’ 

“No,” she answered, “lam bewildered ; it is all so 
sudden. Oh, Tom, you should have given me a little 
warning. ’ * 

“ I know, I know, I am sorry, I ought,” said Tom, 
following up his advantage. ‘ ‘ I have kept it to myself, 
but it has always been here, at my heart. I didn’t 
dare to tell you ; felt the Vicar would think I wasn’t 
good enough ; then I thought you might have an idea, 
don’t you know, that I was after your money. But 
to-day ; it is Spring, and there’s hope in everything, 
and I got courage. — But you don’t love me, Susannah 
— let me call you Sue, my own Sue !’ ’ 

And once more, how she knew not, she found her- 
self in Tom’s arms, and this time she did not struggle 
away from him. He had taken her by storm. She 
had struck her colours under the impulse of surprise. 

‘ ‘ There is some one else to consult and consider be- 
sides ourselves, Tom ; one whom I love and reverence 
as if he were my father, as well as yours.” 

“ Will you say yes, if he agrees? Don’t blight all 
my hopes in life, Sue, — let the Vicar be indeed a father 
to us both, don’ t you know. ’ ’ 

“ If the Vicar gives his consent, Tom, I ” 

“ He will, he will !” exclaimed Tom, before the girl 
had time to finish her sentence ; he feared there might 
be a qualification, which he would at once nip in the 
bud. 

‘ ‘ Do you think so ?’ ’ 

“Yes, yes.” 


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“ Give me time to think, dear,” she said. 

The endearing word settled it ; he would have her 
answer now, and he pressed it, kissing her hands the 
while. 

“ Don’t break my heart,” he said, once more, with 
a hoarseness that suggested emotion. ” I only say if 
the Vicar consents, if — supposing he doesn’t, then it is 
all off. Say I may hope ; say you will be my wife. I 
don’ t want to hamper you with a date, or anything of 
that kind. I will work and be worthy of you and the 
Vicar and all our friends ; I will, I swear it, by all you 
hold dear and holy ! Is it yes ?’ ’ 

She laid her head upon his shoulder, and the tears 
once more welled into her eyes. 

“ Of course we must have the dear Vicar’s consent,” 
said Lady Mephistopheles ; for she had been standing 
in the doorway during several minutes, standing as 
demurely as a saint, a basket of flowers in her hand. 
“The dear, kind old Vicar ! And we will have it, 
never fear. ’ ’ 

Tom smiled, and taking Susannah’s arm in his with 
a playful familiarity, said, ‘ ‘ Now, Lady Berwick, do you 
think we understand each other ?’ ’ 

* ‘ I always did think so. ’ ’ 

“ But you seem to doubt whether the Vicar will give 
his consent, ’ ’ said Susannah, timidly ; ‘ ‘ and yet you 
said the match would please him. ’ ’ 

” And I am sure it will, dear,” said her ladyship, in 
her softest and most propitiatory manner, ‘ ‘ but we must 
not be in too great a hurry. Tom has his way to make, 
you know, and must have time to begin fairly.” 

“Yes. It is all so very sudden,” said the girl ; “I 
would much rather have waited.” And she seemed as 
if she would withdraw her arm from Tom’s ; but the 

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triumphant young reprobate only drew it closer within 
his own. 

“ It would certainly have been more discreet to have 
waited before making a definite engagement, or at all 
events it would have been wiser to have first asked the 
Vicar’s consent. But who expects to find wise heads 
on young shoulders ? Not the Vicar, I’m sure. It is 
enough that the heads are handsome. But there, go 
along, enjoy these sweet moments alone ; and leave the 
rest to me. ’ ’ 

Putting her arms round the two young people. Lady 
Berwick pushed them gently through the open case- 
ment upon the terrace, Tom looking over his shoulder 
with a well-satisfied face towards her ladyship, and Su- 
sannah submitting to be led away among the flowers 
which were emblematic of her own sweet innocence ; 
and notwithstanding little thrills of remorse and little 
shivers of doubts and fears, she felt a new and peculiar 
sense of happiness. It was, however, something akin 
to the doubtful happiness of a dream, that has flashes 
of the knowledge that it is nothing more than a dream. 

Lady Berwick felicitated herself upon the very suc- 
cessful opening of her game, and saw it for a moment 
as if the two figures among the flower-beds were no 
more than a couple of pawms which she had just moved 
with intentions of advancement, when her bishops and 
castles and her king and queen should come into play. 
As she turned from the window to go to her escritoire 
she met Keziah, who announced the arrival of Lord 
Cleeve. 

“Good !” said her ladyship. “ He’s just in time to 
see my doves cooing. ’ ’ 


88 


CHAPTER XIII. 


“ CHECK !'’ 

“Don’t let me disturb you, Lady Berwick,” said 
his lordship, for Madame had taken her seat before a 
pile of correspondence at her desk. 

She always made a point of appearing to be more 
than usually busy whenever the Vicar or Lord Cleeve 
called. Not that she did not find plenty of time to 
engage them in conversation ; but it was part of her 
policy of feminine influence to have a great many 
things to attend to, more particularly in connection with 
her various philanthropic undertakings. 

“Oh, no, thank you,” she said, looking up, pen in 
hand. “ I have nearly finished ; Dorcas accounts this 
time besides the Matrons’ Society. I’m sure you will 
sympathise with me. Just this one column of figures 
and then my signature, that is all. You will find the 
Quarterly Review on the table ; there is an article on 
Old Ballads which pleased me very much. ’ ’ 

“ Thank you ; it is a subject that interests me unusu- 
ally at the moment. ’ ’ 

Lady Berwick turned to her papers, made an imag- 
inary calculation of an imaginary column of figures, 
signed the paper, blotted it, folded it, and placed it 
under a paper-weight. Then, addressing an imaginary 
committee, said aloud, “There, most worthy friends of 
Dorcas, I hope that will content you.” She rose and 
advanced towards her visitor. 

“Now, Lord Cleeve, business being over, let me 
89 


THE VICAR 


shake hands with you, and say how kind it is of you to 
come all this way to see me.” 

‘ ‘ I would go much further to see you, ’ ’ he replied, 
her hand in his, ‘ ‘ and not think it a trouble, but a 
pleasure. ’ ’ 

“Thank you very much,” she said, reluctantly with- 
drawing her hand and smiling upon him a world of 
gratitude from her expressive eyes. ‘ ‘ And I have not 
made a stranger of you ; I know how you dislike con- 
ventionality, and how much you sympathise with women 
who work. ’ ’ 

“You always make me at home. Lady Berwick; 
and I feel free to say that even when complimenting a 
lady I always try to speak the truth. I must tell you 
that on this occasion I did not come only to see you. 
The truth is the Vicar had driven across here, and I 
followed him, with the intention of riding back with 
him.” 

‘ ‘ With him ?’ ’ said Lady Berwick, echoing his 
words. 

And Miss Woodcote,” he replied, quickly. 

“ Well, the Vicar has been here and will return in 
half an hour,” said her ladyship. 

‘ ‘ So soon ?’ ’ observed his lordship, regretfully. 

“Thank you,” said her ladyship. “And Susannah 
is here now.” 

“I must be frank again,” said his lordship. “I 
knew Miss Woodcote was here ; your maid told 
me so.” 

“ Do you, then,” said her ladyship, “ in this beautiful 
frankness of yours, wish me to discount the compliment 
your call seemed to pay to me ?’ ’ 

“It is not always easy to speak the truth. Lady 
Berwick, without giving offence.” 

90 


THE VICAR 


“You can compensate me for my want of attraction 
in crediting me with good sense, ’ ’ she replied. ‘ ‘ The 
case stands thus : I was not sufficiently attractive to 
keep you from the Vicar and Miss Woodcote, but Miss 
Woodcote and I together could hold you from the 
Vicar.” 

“You are so very kind,” said his lordship, blandly. 

“To myself,” her ladyship responded ; “for you see, 
I shall argue, by inference, that Miss Woodcote would 
not be able to draw you from the Vicar and me.” 

“You are as severe as you are pleasant. Lady Ber- 
wick. Your words are thistles dipped in honey.” 

“No, don’t say so, my dear friend. I am bad 
enough, but the little good is not spread over a cruel 
nature. Oh, for a little faith, a little true friendship !” 

She rose quietly from her chair, and crossed the 
room to her desk. Lord Cleeve contemplated her, a 
question passing through his mind as to her earnestness. 

“ Or is she trying to fool me?” he thought. Then 
approaching her sympathetically, he expressed a hope 
that he had not offended her. 

“ Oh, no, no, my dear friend,” she said, with a reas- 
suring smile. “Your presence is so welcome that even 
if some remark of yours did give me pain, I should be 
foolish not to conceal it. And after all, my conscience 
tells me I do some good.” 

“ I hear on all hands of your kindness to the aged,” 
said his lordship. 

“And, believe me, I am not unmindful of the young,” 
her ladyship replied with sudden cheerfulness, pointing, 
as she was enabled to do at the moment, to Tom and 
Susannah, who were passing by the lawn into the rose- 
garden. “ Look now, but for me those young people 
might at this moment be engaged. But I say, wait ; 

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THE VICAR 


you are suited in years, but not in fortune ; Tom must 
make his mark in the world. And Tom will ; don’t 
you think so ?’ ’ 

Lord Cleeve did not reply. His eyes were fixed 
upon the two young people in the garden. He did 
not attempt to disguise his astonishment. 

Tom will make his mark in the world ; don’t you 
think so ?’ ’ she repeated. 

“ I am sure I hope so, ’ ’ said Lord Cleeve, recovering 
something of his usual composure of manner. 

“You don’t doubt Tom?” asked the widow, with a 
double note of interrogation in the tone of her voice. 

“Doubt him?” said his lordship. “I don’t quite 
understand you. The son of my old friend is naturally 
dear to me.” 

‘ ‘ But you think him careless, lacking in solidity of 
character, giving up too much of his time to field 
sports, to golf and billiards and the like ?’ ’ 

“Tom is young,” his lordship replied, “and there 
is no harm in field sports. Careless youth sometimes 
changes into serious manhood.” 

* ‘ Always generous, ’ ’ said her ladyship. ‘ ‘ Shall we 
join them ?’ ’ 

“Join them?” said Lord Cleeve. 

“ I mean in the garden,” she replied, without show- 
ing how pleased she was at the success of her little 
dotible entendre. 

“Well, no, I think not. My presence might disturb 
them.” 

“Oh, do you think so?” 

“ I have not seen Tom for some little time.” 

“No ?” 

‘ ‘ And something tells me that it would be best that 
I should not extend my call.” 

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THE VICAR 


“ Not to see the Vicar ?’^ 

‘ ‘ I shall see him later. ’ ’ 

“ But will you not speak to Miss Woodcote?” 

“ Not now, thank you.” 

“ Perhaps you will meet the Vicar on the road?” 

Perhaps.” 

‘ ‘ By the way, do you think he ought to know of 
what is likely to happen ?’ ’ 

‘ ‘ What, in your opinion, is likely to happen. Lady 
Berwick?” 

‘ ‘ Don’ t you see a prospective bride and bridegroom 
yonder ?’ ’ she replied, pointing to the garden. 

“Do you?” 

* ‘ I think so. Why not ?’ ’ 

‘ ‘ I have observed, Lady Berwick, in novels, that 
when the lover proposes, it is customary for the blush- 
ing maiden, or even the blushing widow — widows do 
blush, at least in novels — to exclaim, ‘It is all so 
sudden !’ ” 

“Widows can blush out of novels. Lord Cleeve, 
and have often had cause for surprise at declarations 
of the kind you mention ; but your lordship was alluding 


‘ ‘ My own astonishment at your prophetic view of the 
little scene in the garden. ’ ’ 

“You are so frank.” 

“ So was Eve,” said his lordship. 

“And Adam, so mean,” she said, laughing. “ But 
we are straying from the subject. Shall you tell the 
Vicar?” 

“ It is not my business, is it?” he asked, drawing on 
his gloves. 

“No, perhaps not; and, as you say, it may not 
happen. ’ ’ 


93 


THE VICAR 


“ I don’t think I said so.” 

“You thought so, Lord Cleeve.” 

‘ ‘ Did I ? And you think I hoped so. I can only 
repeat my astonishment at what you have hinted. ’ ’ 

“ It is possible you may not think Tom good enough 
for the Vicar s ward, nor is he — nor is any man good 
enough for a good woman ; and perhaps the Vicar 
may not think it a sufficiently good match for her. 
Yet he ought to be proud of his son, and only too 
glad to entrust the child of his dead friend to his care. ’ ’ 

“ It is not always the lot of a good father to be blest 
with a good son. ’ ’ 

“Ah, you know something of Tom that I do not, 
something to his discredit. You men know each other 
better than we women know you ; and in the Vicar’s 
chivalrous, not to say Quixotic, love for Susannah, he 
may have a titled lover in view, or a very wealthy 
commoner. 

“We are professing to be frank with each other, and 
are talking as enigmatically as if we were a couple of 
astute diplomats. — And about what?” 

‘ ‘ It may be that the Enigma yonder, ’ ’ again pointing 
to the garden, ‘ ‘ is puzzling us both. If you are sur- 
prised at it, you who know so much of the Vicar’ s house- 
hold, how much more so must it have surprised me ?’ ’ 

‘ ‘ I really cannot tell, ’ ’ said his lordship. ‘ ‘ Perhaps 
it is, after all, a little pleasantry of yours, a tribute to 
Spring, a comedy of good spirits. But there, I really 
must go. I think our friends are coming from the gar- 
den into the real world of the drawing-room ; and I 
would not run the risk of casting a shadow on the 
Comedy on any account. ’ ’ 

“You are very strange. Lord Cleeve,” said her lady- 
ship, assuming a serious tone. 

94 


THE VICAR 


“Am I? It is a strange world. Good-bye, Lady 
Berwick,” he said, and he took her hand with an un- 
usual assumption of cordiality and raised it to his lips. 

‘ ‘ Good-bye, ’ ’ she said, with a sigh, ‘ ‘ if you must go. ’ * 

And he was gone. 

“ Check !” murmured her ladyship. 

‘ ‘ Cleeve, you school-boy !’ ’ he said, as he rode off 
in an opposite direction from that in which he might 
have met the Vicar. ‘ ‘ Cleeve, you doting idiot, you 
were within an ace of betraying yourself to that 
scheming, fascinating, and mysterious widow. But 
your inherited bit of common sense saved you. And 
yet she suspects me ; and, by Jove, if I were a vain 
man, I should suspect her ! What is the meaning of it 
all ? Is it a comedy, that may turn out to be a tragedy ? 
Is it a plot against Susannah, organised by Lady Ber- 
wick? It is not a genuine love-match, that is most 
certain. A love-match ! It would break the Vicar’s 
heart — such a love-match ! . . . And surely the widow 
knows the sort of character Tom bears, the trouble he 
is to his father, and the old man’s love and devotion to 
his ward, the daughter of his dearest friend. Is it some 
intrigue, the object of which is to compromise the girl ? 
I cannot think that. Lady Berwick is not the unsophis- 
ticated, simple, kindly woman they think her in this 
corner of the county ; she holds her own with the most 
worldly women of fortune in town ; yet, what possible 
object could she have in betraying a sweet and innocent 
girl to the embraces of a debased young ruffian, such 
as Tom Hussingtree? . . . Can it be that Tom has de- 
ceived the widow with his imitation of manliness, and 
‘ boys will be boys,’ and so on, and his pleasant man- 
ners? The fellow is not without a certain charm of 
95 


THE VICAR 


bonhomie and good breeding. But a ruffian at heart ! 
In the mystery of heredity, what ancestor of the 
Vicar’s can be repeated in this mixture of the Joseph 
and Charles of Sheridan, with the Joseph all the more 
dangerous that he adds to his own immoralities the 
lesser vices of Charles ?’ ’ 

Thus his thoughts ran on, a very jumble of compli- 
cated doubts and unfinished plans of action. He threw 
the reins to the groom on arriving at the Vicarage, 
and went straight to his room, feeling that his love for 
Susannah had increased with the possible and unex- 
pected obstacle to his happiness that Lady Berwick 
had shown him. Hitherto his age, compared with her 
youth, had been to him the chief drawback to his suit, 
whenever he should make up his mind to proffer it. 
He was forty ; she not quite twenty. There were 
streaks of grey in his hair, but he was as young at 
heart as many a fellow of half his years. He had 
taken honours at Oxford, had lived a studious life, was 
something of a dreamer, had a singularly sweet smile, 
that was very noticeable in a somewhat melancholy 
countenance. A little above the medium height, he 
was not one of those men who arrest attention at first 
sight. His bearing was so modest that you might pass 
him by while a less distinguished person attracted your 
attention ; but, introduced to him, you would soon be 
conscious of his natural charm of manner, the frank 
expression of his hazel eyes, and you would not be 
surprised to learn that he was a man of parts, too 
honest for a mere politician, and too fond of books to 
be very much attracted by Society. How far his secret 
love for Susannah Woodcote had, during a couple of 
years, influenced his conduct or shaped his character, 
it is hard to say. 


96 


CHAPTER XIV. 


“a wicked and a disappointing world.” 

“Who do you think has been here?” said Lady 
Berwick, as Susannah and Tom entered the room from 
the garden. ‘ ‘ Lord Cleeve ! He had ridden on to 
meet the Vicar. He noticed you in the garden, and 
I think he was pleased to see you walking so affection- 
ately together.” 

“ But I wish you had spoken to your father, Tom,” 
said the girl, with an anxious face. 

“He might have objected,” said Lady Berwick, 
‘ ‘ and you know, he is very obstinate ; religious people 
always are.” 

‘ ‘ He calls his obstinacy moral firmness. Lady Ber- 
wick,” said Tom. 

“ Firmness is a better word than obstinacy, and for 
so genial and kind a man as the Vicar. You see, as 
Susannah’s guardian and your father, he is bound to 
take a careful and sober view of your mutual and sev- 
eral prospects. I have a plan ! We must take time to 
prepare the Vicar for the situation, — a year, say ?” 

‘ ‘ I feel as if I had done something ungrateful in 
pledging myself to Tom without asking the Vicar’s 
consent ; it has all been so sudden and hasty !’ ’ 

“ The very words of Lord Cleeve,” said the widow. 

“ Did you tell him?” asked Susannah, quickly. 

“ No, he saw you walking in the garden. I believe 
Tom’s arm was round your waist.” 

The girl blushed, and hung her head. 

“ It would grieve me dreadfully to hurt the Vicar’s 
7 97 


THE VICAR 


feelings, to seem ungrateful, and not to confide in him. 
Lord Cleeve will tell him,” she said. 

“I think not,” her ladyship replied; ‘‘indeed, he 
said it was not his business to do so.” 

‘‘You talked about it?” said the girl, eagerly. 

“Just in a casual way.” 

‘ ‘ And he said it was very sudden ?’ * 

“ Yes.” 

‘ ‘ And so it is ; too sudden, I fear, to be good. Oh, 
Tom ! Oh, Lady Berwick !” 

Susannah buried her face in her hands, and sank 
into a chair. 

“ My dear child,” said the widow, in soft and tender 
tones, ‘ ‘ my love, you are hysterical. I don’ t wonder, 
it is quite natural ; I was just the same when my first 
lover made me an offer, though I was not your age. 
There, don’t give way.” 

She sat by her side, and kissed her wet cheeks and 
fondled her, and Tom stood by ejaculating such en- 
couraging remarks as, “ Susie, my dear girl,” “ I hate 
to see you cry,” “Cheer up,” “ I know it’s kind of 
serious, as they say, but it happens to everybody.” 

Then Susannah rose, and wiped her eyes and tried 
to smile ; and the widow emptied half a scent bottle 
upon her head and mopped her brow, and the girl said 
she felt better. 

“As Tom says, it happens to everybody ; all young 
people look to be married some day or other. ’ ’ 

‘ ‘ But nobody is to know that we even think of it 
for at least a year,” said Susannah. 

“Not for a whole year,” said the widow; “but 
you’ll keep your word, Susannah dear,” and she took 
her into her arms and embraced her, an office of con- 
firmation and pleasure that Tom was about to perform 
98 


THE VICAR 


himself ; but the widow had other views. As she re- 
leased her, she placed Susannah’s hand in Tom’s and 
addressed them both in a kind of betrothal speech. 

“ Nothing is sweeter in life than to assist at the be- 
trothal of two young people in the same station of life, 
where faith lends an additional charm to constancy. I 
am witness to this happy exchange of vows, and, if 
Tom will allow me, I shall bestow upon Susannah a 
memorial of this day.” 

Whereupon, to the surprise of both, she took from 
her little finger a ring — “The ring of betrothal,” she 
said, as she held it up, and then, taking Susannah’^s 
unresisting hand, she placed upon her third finger the 
diamond loop, exclaiming, as she did so, ‘ ‘ There, my 
love, you have my best wishes, and you will leave to 
me the proper time to make your peace with the Vicar. ’ ’ 

Then she kissed Susannah fervently, and concluded 
her subtle plot with the remark, “Ah, my dear, you 
don’t know how much more I love you now.” 

A knock at the door, and Keziah entered, an- 
nouncing the Vicar. 

Susannah turned hot and cold. Tom bit his lip, and 
pressed his feet firmly upon the yielding carpet. 

“We were just talking of you. Vicar,” said the 
widow. “ Susannah is quite ready.” 

“Thank you. Lady Berwick,” answered the Vicar, 
as he turned to Tom, with an expression something 
between rebuke and surprise. ‘ ‘ I thought you had 
gone to Wulstan, my boy.” 

‘ ‘ Lady Berwick wanted to see me about the gym- 
nasium,” Tom replied, with a ready lie. 

“Always busy, always scheming, always planning,’* 
said the Vicar, turning from Tom to the widow, whose 
moral consciousness was shaken for a moment under 
99 


THE VICAR 


what, at first blush, seemed to be an equivocal com- 
pliment. 

“ Wisely, I mean, — for the good of others,’^ said the 
Vicar, as if he had divined her thought. 

“ You are so very kind,’’ the widow replied. “ Will 
you allow your coachman to carry a basket of flowers 
I have been plucking to the Vicarage? — Coals to New- 
castle, I know, but my gardener took a prize at the 
Horticultural Show last week. ’ ’ 

Then to Keziah, she said, “Saunders will give you a 
basket ; have it put into the Vicar’s carriage.’’ 

“You are so very kind !’’ repeated the Vicar, bend- 
ing over her hand with an air of old-world politeness. 

“ My best friend,’’ murmured Susannah, at parting. 

“You are a jolly sort,” whispered Tom. 

' “A charming woman,” said the Vicar, as they drove 
away, “but I fear she wastes your time, Tom.” 

“Very sorry, sir,” Tom answered ; “I couldn’t well 
refuse to look after the gymnasium.” 

“No, I suppose not,” the Vicar replied. “I hope 
you had a pleasant chat, Susannah.” 

“Yes,” said his perturbed ward. 

“Very pleasant?” queried the Vicar. “I thought 
you seemed a little sad. ’ ’ 

“Oh, no, dear,” said Susannah, turning her head 
aside to avoid his glance of inquiry. 

Lady Berwick, from behind an arbutus on the terrace, 
watched the carriage trundling along the white highway 
and kissed her hand at it with a triumphant smile. 

“A good day’s work,” she said ; “but you can do 
a great deal in a day if you have laid your plans before- 
hand. I wonder how the game will develop ? Cleeve 
moves next. I believe I see the end of it ; but who 
knows ? It is a wicked and a disappointing world !’ * 

lOO 


CHAPTER XV. 


WITHOUT GLOVES. 

The cottage that Birket Foster would have loved to 
paint was embowered in the golden leaves of the last 
days of September. 

Lizzie Melford had found her trouble unbearable, and 
it was the eve of the Comberton Harvest Home. She 
had assisted to decorate the church with flowers and 
wreaths of corn. But she could not face the happy 
ceremony of the morrow. She had reckoned how 
long it would take her to walk to the railway junction 
at Shrub Hill, where the Mail from the West stopped 
for five minutes on its way to London. 

It was a bitter thing to steal away like a thief in the 
night ; but worse still to stay and bear the contumely 
of her sin and refrain from justifying her wickedness ; 
to have the pity of Lady Berwick, and the rebuke, 
however gentle, of the Vicar. She knew London as 
the refuge of the wretched as well as the Mecca of the 
happy and the free ; so she resolved to take the mid- 
night train to town. 

Neither the station-master nor the porters at Shrub 
Hill knew her. Nevertheless, when she entered the 
little waiting-room she gathered her cloak about her, 
and crept into a corner as if she would hide herself even 
from herself. 

She had twenty pounds in her pocket, all her little 
savings, besides the trinkets that Tom had given her 
from time to time, and her Bible that had belonged to 

lOI 


THE VICAR 


her father, John Melford, when she was a child, before 
her mother married Macfarlane, a lumpish Northerner, 
who seemed to care for nobody in the whole world ex- 
cept the Vicar’s reprobate son, for whom he would 
willingly have laid down his life. Such is the slavish 
devotion that may still obtain between master and ser- 
vant. Macfarlane and Tom had indeed almost been 
playmates, though Macfarlane was old enough to have 
been his grandfather. Tom was a born sportsman, and 
Macfarlane had taught him pretty well all he knew in 
the varied arts of angling, snaring game, riding, driving 
and shooting, in all of which things he was an expert 
when little more than a lad. One can therefore under- 
stand how hard it would be for Macfarlane to be sepa- 
rated from the fortunes of the young fellow, when the 
seeds he had sown began to bear prickly fruit and father 
and son quarrelled. 

In the mean time, Lizzie, in the corner of a second- 
class carriage, shunning all communication with her 
fellow-passengers, was being rushed along at the rate 
of sixty miles an hour into the arms of that ‘ ‘ cruel step- 
mother,” London. 

Next morning, her mother, who had in the girl’s 
estimation wronged the memory of her father by mar- 
rying Macfarlane, had news of her flight in a brief let- 
ter, — the old story, with a difference, — in which she 
begged all who respected her to forget her ; she was no 
longer the Lizzie they knew ; but they need have no 
fear that she would do herself a mischief ; she would be 
able to earn a living, and they might be sure she would 
bring no further disgrace upon the village than might 
lie in her sudden desertion of the place where she had 
been so happy and so miserable. 

If Lizzie’s father had lived, she would most likely 
102 


THE VICAR 


have been spared her great trouble. Her mother was 
a weak, silly kind of woman, who regarded the girl’s 
little refinements and unusual learning for a village 
maiden as ‘ ‘ ower fine affectations, ’ ’ and Macfarlane 
was rather her enemy than her friend ; not that he had 
willingly connived at the secret meetings of Lizzie and 
Tom, but he had known of them long before he had 
become fearful and unhappy as to the result. 

Why Lizzie’s mother had married such a dolt as 
David Macfarlane no one understood. It certainly 
was not a marriage of affection, but rather one of con- 
venances if one may apply the term to such a humble 
union. Macfarlane had been in the Vicar’s service for 
many years, as under-gardener, head-gardener, and 
man-of-all-work. Soon after her widowhood Lizzie’s 
foolish mother thought he was entitled to the chief 
position in the Vicar’s employment ; so he became her 
husband, and Lizzie’s step-father. He had felt some- 
thing like jealousy of Lizzie’s intimacy with Tom Hus- 
singtree, and when he came to understand how Tom 
had abused the privilege, he was inclined to blame 
Lizzie rather than her betrayer. 

To Macfarlane’ s thinking she was always a forward 
young minx, with ideas above her station, and her 
rivalry with her betters, talking with Lady Berwick 
almost on equal terms, and the like. Though he was 
of an independent spirit himself, he knew his place, as 
he often remarked to his wife ; but her daughter Lizzie 
was above it, much above it, and pride must have its 
fall. The girl had not betrayed her secret ; they only 
guessed at it, and as for doing or saying anything to 
hurt the position or prospects of Tom Hussingtree, 
nothing was further from her thoughts. She was just 
as willing a sacrifice to the manly charms of Tom as 
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THE VICAR 


Macfarlane to his sentiment of yeoman’s service, and 
she hardly ever remembered to think of Luke Fenton, 
who had stood up for her so bravely and loved her so 
well. 

Luke said not a word when he heard that Lizzie 
Melford had fled, but started straightaway for her 
grandmother’s house. Nothing had been heard of her 
there. Then he went to Wulstan, wandered about the 
city, spied into every possible haunt where one in Liz- 
zie Melford’ s position might seek shelter. He found 
no trace of her. This occupied several days. He re- 
turned to Comberton, and met, by accident, Tom Hus- 
singtree riding in the direction of Powyke House. 

“A word with you, if you please,” said Luke, 
placing himself in the rider’s path. 

“ I don’t please,” Tom replied, putting spurs to his 
horse, that leaped forward at this unusual goad, for her 
master very rarely used spur or whip. 

Almost at the same moment Luke jumped for the 
animal’s head. The mare lifted him from his feet. 

“You fool, you’ll be killed !” roared Tom, as the 
animal plunged and foamed at the mouth. 

Luke made no reply, but clung to her head, gripping it 
by the rings and cheek-bits of the curb, with both hands. 

“ Curse you !” shouted Tom, as the mare, unable to 
free herself from the strange impediment at her head, 
flung out her heels. 

Luke swinging beneath the animal’s head suddenly 
pulled it almost to the ground and Tom with it. 

” Leave go, you blackguard !” Tom shouted, “leave 
go !” 

“ Get off,” said Luke, “or I’ll fling you.” 

“So ho, mare, so ho!” said Tom, loosening his 
rein. “ Let go her head, and I’ll dismount.” 

104 


THE VICAR 


Luke let go. The mare stood stock still and trem- 
bled in every limb. 

“ So ho, my lass, so ho !” said Tom, slipping out of 
the saddle and patting her neck, “ that’s my beauty !” 

The mare turned her head towards him. He rubbed 
her nose and patted her, saying, “It’s all right, my 
girl. We don’t want to have the lunatic’s blood upon 
our hands, damn him all the same !’ ’ 

The mare looked about her in an inquiring way and 
then rubbed her nose against her master. Luke stood 
by unmoved. 

“I know, old girl, I know the man’s a fool,” said 
Tom, as he led her to a gate and flung the bridle over 
the post; “quiet now, quiet.” Once more the mare 
was herself again, and subject to command. She 
stood impassively as Tom turned upon Luke with his 
crop raised and ready to strike a blow if necessary. 

“ Now, what do you want with me?” he said. “ I 
could have trampled you into a mummy, had I minded ; 
and I can brain you now, and will, if you don’t take 
care what you’ve got to say.” 

Tom’s eyes flashed as he spoke, but they were an- 
swered by a steadfast look of defiance. 

“ I don’t think you could have trampled me into a 
mummy ; I don’t think you can brain me now. Tie 
up your horse, come over the gate yonder into old 
Jackson’s meadow, and try it ; nobody’s likely to dis- 
turb us, and you shall use your crop, too ; you’re 
coward enough.” 

“Mind what you say, Fenton. I don’t want to do 
you an injury.” 

“You’ve done me the greatest injury already that 
you can ever do me ; but I’m not here to worry over 
that. As I told you at starting, I only want a word 

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with you ; but if fighting is more to your taste, I’m 
your man, and I tell you I’ll give you your whipstock 
in, — you seem to be holding it so handy.” 

Tom had flourished his crop while he spoke, and 
Luke had watched the swing of it keenly and with a 
ready eye. 

Though he was not a physical coward, Tom quailed 
before the desperate expression and ready manner of 
Luke, a spare man, but muscular, gaunt of face and 
wiry of build, no match, one would have thought, for 
the broad-shouldered, well-fed, sturdy-looking young 
squire of Comberton ; nevertheless, a man of a desper- 
ate persistency. 

‘ ‘ If you think I am going out with you to play at 
fisticuffs, you are mistaken ; but if you want a good 
cudgelling. I’m your man. Master Luke Fenton !” 
said Tom, with an affectation of carelessness. 

‘ ‘ Are you, by God !’ ’ exclaimed Luke ; and the 
next moment Tom was disarmed, Luke flinging his 
crop into the meadow, and Tom, ‘‘on guard,” was 
awaiting the blow that he expected to follow. 

‘‘ Put down your hands. I’m not going to hit you,” 
said Luke. ‘ ‘ I spare you, for her sake ; one day I 
may kill you for the same reason. At present I only 
want to know where she is ?’ ’ 

‘ ‘ Where who is ?’ ’ 

‘ ‘ There is only one she I am likely to inquire after, 
and you know it. I refer to Lizzie Melford. Where 
is she?” 

“ I don’t know.” 

“You know she has left Comberton ?” 

“Yes.” 

“And you don’t know where she has gone?” 

“No.” 

io6 


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“ On your oath, — not that your oath is worth much, 
but there is a superstition about oaths that may even 
touch you ; on your oath ?’ ’ 

“On my solemn oath, Fenton,'’ said Tom, turning 
now to fasten his mare securely to the gate, and patting 
her into quietude. 

“You know why she has left Comberton?” 

“Perhaps.” 

“You do know, because you advised her where 
to go.” 

“You heard that when you were eaves-dropping ?” 

“ I was not eaves-dropping intentionally.” 

“You heard two people talking, and you stood 
aside to listen.” 

“ You did not mind that God Himself was listening,” 
said Luke. 

“I don’t appreciate psalm-singing,” Tom replied, 
with a sneer. 

“You don’t mind that the Devil might be looking 
on, and applauding his disciple.” 

‘ ‘ It was enough for me that you were sneaking 
around to trap the girl, who wouldn’t listen to you 
even on scriptural grounds,” said Tom, beginning to 
feel his feet and take stock of the situation. 

“ If I thought you would do the girl justice, Mr. 
Tom Hussingtree, I would not say another word, 
except, ‘ God speed, go your ways both, and be 
happy.’ ” 

“ How do you know I don’t mean to do her justice, 
as you say ? 

‘ ‘ Because I overheard your vile confession and worse 
advice.” 

“ Oh, you did, did you?” 

“ I did ; but even now, if you would relent and do 
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the right thing ; if you would go to the Vicar and tell 
him all ; if you would be true and honest and straight, 
and seek her out and repair the mischief you have 
done, or show a desire to repair it, and ’ ’ 

“ Oh, look here, Fve no more time to waste in being 
preached at. Go to the devil !’ ’ 

‘ ‘ I don’ t mind where I go when you have lifted that 
poor foolish, confiding girl back upon the path that 
Society and the world consider the path of honour and 
respectability. Until you do that, I am going to make 
this world just as hot for you as the place you tell me 
to go to.” 

“ Oh, you are !” said Tom, noting a growing limp- 
ness of attitude in his enemy that favoured attack. 

‘ ‘ Then let’ s settle it at once. ’ ’ 

All suddenly he whipped off his coat and vest, laid 
aside his watch and chain ; and, as he did so, so like- 
wise did Luke. 

‘‘In the meadow?” said Luke. 

“No, here.” 

Tom stepped a little way down the road, well clear of 
his horse, and with a ‘ ‘ Damn-you-to-hell !’ ’ he struck 
the first blow and drew the first blood. It was cow- 
ardly done, and an act that Tom would not have com- 
mitted before witnesses, for he had had a fairly good 
Oxford athletic training ; but here he felt unequal to 
Luke, whose cause was just, and he feared him. 

“Coward!” said Luke, pushing back his hair, the 
blood streaming down his face. 

“Beast!” was Tom’s rejoinder, accompanying a 
lunge at Luke’s ribs, well parried by Luke and an- 
swered with a blow under the right ear that sent Tom 
staggering, followed up by a knock-down blow that 
laid him on the ground, half stunned. In a fight under 
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the Queensbuiy rules, Tom would have been counted 
out ; but presently he struggled to his feet and faced 
his man for the next round. 

‘ ‘ I shall kill you, ’ ’ said Luke, wiping the blood 
from his face with the back of his hand. 

‘ ‘Then do it, you infernal thief, do it !’ ’ snarled 
Tom, the passion of murder in his heart too ; and 
the men faced each other. Tom was pale to the 
lips. 

The art was with Tom ; the earnestness and energy, 
the right with Luke. It was a fairly equal match, and 
each of them understood that it was so ; for after the 
first hard and desperate round they fenced and watched 
each other. 

Presently Tom lunged at his enemy, a straight blow 
for the region of the heart ; it was countered cleverly, 
and as Tom sprang back a pace Luke hit him squarely 
on the jaw. Tom recovered the blow with pluck and 
dexterity, and, defending himself with his right, hit out 
unexpectedly with his left, leaving his mark on Luke’s 
cheek. There was no umpire to call “Time,” no 
audience to see fair play. The two men, however, as 
if they realised that wrestling was not in the game, 
at length struggled free from each other and paused. 
Luke pushed his hair back, and untying his neckerchief 
mopped his face with it. Tom breathed heavily and 
leaned against old Jackson’s gate. 

As if obeying the call of the next round from some 
mysterious director of the sport, Tom presently stood 
forward, and Luke, flinging down his neckerchief, faced 
him once more, but evidently (as Tom did not fail to 
notice with satisfaction) suffering, though, truth to tell, 
Tom up to now was the hardest hit ; his head was 
beating like a steam-hammer, but he went for Luke 
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doggedly. It stimulated him to curse, and with an 
oath he flung out once more at his adversary. 

Luke parried the blow, and countered the next with 
one in the face. Then the two began to walk round 
each other and fence, Luke fairly dancing until Tom 
planted a staggering blow under his opponent’s jaw 
that seemed to lift him from his feet, following it with 
a second squarely and hard on the heart, under which 
Luke collapsed. Tom designedly flung himself upon 
him as he fell, and clutched him by the throat. Luke 
did not heed the foul act, but lay still, as if he had 
breathed his last. Then Tom, in alarm, released his 
grip, and went for his brandy flask. 

It was some time before Luke recovered. So soon 
as he was able to stand, Tom led him to the roadside 
and left him. The Vicar, driving that way, found him 
there an hour afterwards, and drove him to an adjacent 
cottage, where he was known and cared for. Tom, 
meanwhile, had taken a short cut, not to Lady Ber- 
wick’s nor to the Vicarage, but to the Coventry Arms, 
close by the Shrub Hill Junction. Here he gave him- 
self a rub down. Pretending that he had had a spill, 
he went to a doctor, who lived hard by ; and at dusk 
returned to the Vicarage, not much the worse physically 
for his encounter, but with a certain moral trepidation 
concerning Lizzie Melford and what should happen 
when the Vicar knew, as he shortly must, why his 
interesting little parishioner had fled from Comberton. 


no 


CHAPTER XVI. 


AN INTERRUPTED MELODY. 

They called it the Vicar’s room. It was neither 
library, chapel, nor treasure house ; but a little of all 
three. It had a cosy air of learning, with a certain 
monastic dignity. Books, curios, pictures, an organ, an 
iron safe enclosed in an old oak cabinet, and everything 
and anything the Vicar might be likely to want in the 
way of work and intellectual recreation. He loved 
reading, was fond of music, and at certain hours of the 
day it was understood that he was not to be disturbed. 
There was no law of this kind. The Vicar was the 
last man in the world to institute rules and regulations. 
But the household had come to know, as if by instinct, 
what the Vicar liked, and the chief desire of the entire 
establishment was to please him. In this, to a great 
extent, they got their inspiration from Susannah Wood- 
cote, who, since the death of the Vicar’s wife, had be- 
come the very life and soul of the Vicarage, its guide 
and administrator ; and yet without letting the check 
of her hand be felt, preserving to all appearance the 
girlishness of seventeen. 

It was Autumn now ; and the Vicar, sitting at his 
organ, felt the sombre influences of the time and put 
his reflections into his music. He was the picture of a 
lovely and dignified old age, as he sat before the little 
chamber instrument in his clerical coat, his thick grey 
hair pushed away from his broad open forehead. Mod- 
ulating melody after melody that ranged through the 

III 


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past, as his mind wandered backwards, he found his 
fingers presently recalling the old German air, “In 
Sheltered Vale,” the old song of the Mill-Wheel, that 
had many sweet and pathetic associations in his memory. 

‘ ‘ Strange !’ ’ he said, leaning back in his seat and 
pausing. ‘ ‘ When I feel the pain of a sorrow that is 
not altogether sad, that tuneful melody comes unbidden 
to my fingers — my wife’s favourite ! Poor Mary ! How 
beautiful she was ! I can see her now, teaching Tom 
to play it, kissing and chiding his little fat fingers that 
could hardly reach the keys ! Tom ! Ah, I fear he 
would have been a sad disappointment to his mother, 
had the Lord spared her to have remained with us. . . . 
She looked forward to a gentle, though chivalrous son, 
I to a youngster as brave as he was good ! ... I re- 
member at College being what one might call a man of 
peace, nevertheless attracted by the fellow who was 
cock of the walk at football, cricket, billiards, stroke of 
the winning crew, a steeple- chaser, and who once 
thrashed a bargee for insulting a lady. I was more of 
a book man and a dreamer ; one admires that in another 
which one does not possess oneself. . . . Tom rides 
with the skill of a jockey and the manner of a gentle- 
man ; stroke in the Oxford crew, champion at billiards, 
the best bowler in the best cricket team — and yet 1 . . . 
And yet, in my priestly experience these achievements 
too often go hand in hand with drink and debauchery. 

. . . The trainer’s regulations nevertheless make for 

virtue ; but the restraint over Ah, well, I will not 

think of it. I will hope for the best, and pray for 
it ” 

As the melody of the old song once more began to 
fill the atmosphere of the room there was a knock on 
the outer door, an apologetic kind of knock, an uncer- 
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THE VICAR 


tain wavering summons twice or thrice repeated before 
the Vicar heard it. Presently he took his foot from the 
pedal, and with a quiet “ Come in,” rose from his seat 
as his man-servant opened the door. 

Pardon me, your reverence, but the County In- 
spector of Police is desirous to speak with you. ’ ’ 

“ Very well, Rogers ; I will see him.” 

‘ ‘ I felt sure you would, ’ ’ said the officer in question, 
passing by the servant and closing the door with an air 
of authority, ‘ ‘ though I shall not prove a very welcome 
visitor. ’ ’ 

‘ ‘ Don’ t say that, Bradley. What is it ?’ ’ 

“ Your son. Vicar.” 

“My son! Is he hurt?” 

“ No, sir, not hurt.” 

‘ ‘ Thank God ! I had warned him so often since 
that spill he had on the Powyke road against riding his 
favourite mare without a curb. ’ ’ 

“It’s about that spill I’ve called,” said the Inspector. 

“Yes? Take a seat, Bradley.” 

“Thank you, sir,” said Bradley, laying his smart 
military-looking cap on the floor and his cane beside it. 
“You set me on to find out what had become of the 
girl, Lizzie Melford.” 

“ Yes ?” said the Vicar, standing with his back to the 
fire, and the next minute pacing the room restlessly. 

“Well, Vicar, that spill was not a spill; it was a 
fight he had with Luke Fenton. You remember find- 
ing Fenton by the road, a good deal knocked about?” 

‘ ‘ Having been attacked by a tramp, and robbed ? I 
hope he has quite recovered ?’ ’ 

‘ ‘ He was taken from the cottage to the County Hos- 
pital at Wulstan, as you are aware, sir.” 

“Yes, I know, Bradley. Get on; you are usually 
8 113 


THE VICAR 


outspoken ; you have something painful to tell me that 
concerns my son ; you wish to spare my feelings. I 
thank you. But don’t keep me in suspense.” 

“Two days ago we thought Fenton was dying ; the 
doctors thought so. Fenton believing it, confessed a 
thing that will shock you ; though it did not surprise 
me. I had seen Mr. Tom and the girl together more 
than once or twice under suspicious circumstances. ’ ’ 

“What girl?” 

“ Lizzie Melford.” 

“Well, Bradley? Go on,” said the Vicar, his face 
turned to the window, where, over nearly a mile of 
wheat lands, bordering the lawn and copse of the 
Vicarage, the harvesters were at work. 

“You see. Vicar, it was not Luke Fenton that was 
her lover, but Mr. Tom Hussingtree. Luke got to 
know of this, heard the girl’s confession of her condi- 
tion, was a witness to Tom’s avowal that he could not 
marry her, and heard him advise her to go away for a 
time on a visit to an aged, poor relation, one Granny 
Dene, and nobody would be the wiser ; he would pro- 
vide for her, and the like — the old story you must 
have heard yourself, Vicar, again and again in your 
ministrations. It’s common enough in the annals of 
the police. ’ ’ 

“A witness of her confession and Tom’s avowal of 
guilt, you say ?’ ’ 

“ Overheard by accident.” 

‘ ‘ An eaves-dropper !’ ’ said the Vicar, with a momen- 
tary desire to defend his son. 

“Not exactly, Vicar. You see, Fenton loved the 
girl, was a reformed character for her sake, studied 
and became what other chaps called stuck-up and the 
rest ; and he was entering the Homestead cottage to 
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speak a few serious words, as you may say, to the girl, 
when he was pulled up by seeing your son and Lizzie 
sitting side by side. She was crying and asking him 
to wed her, and take her away to some foreign land, 
and she would be his slave and the like. ’ ’ 

“And indeed he shall marry her, if this be true !” 
said the Vicar, clenching his white hands and pacing 
the room in such unwonted anger that the Inspector 
apologised for ruffling him. 

“ Don’t mind me, Bradley.” 

“Well, sir, a day or two afterwards the girl disap- 
peared ; and a week later, Fenton, having looked for 
her everywhere in the hope of rendering her any neces- 
sary assistance, came back to Comberton. ’ ’ 

“The villagers said he had gone away with her.” 

“ But David Macfarlane knew better.” 

“Did he?” 

“And his sister Keziah knew better.” 

“You think so?” 

“ I am sure so. They didn’t know, mind you, what 
had really happened ; nor, perhaps, on their oath could 
they have said she had not gone away with Fenton ; 
but they knew your son had given the girl presents.” 

“A foolish, pretty, vain child !” said the Vicar. 

“Well, sir, Fenton met your son on the Powyke 
road, demanded of him where the girl was. Master 
Tom knew that Luke knew how guilty he was.” 

The Vicar sat down, and covered his face with his 
hands. 

“Your son tried to ride over him, but Fenton seized 
the reins. Master Tom dismounted. They had high 
words ; Fenton challenged him to fight ; they fought ; 
and in the closing round your son, having hit Fenton 
upon the heart, fell upon him, seized him by the throat, 

115 


THE VICAR 


and would have strangled him, only that he found the 
man to be dying, as he thought.” 

The Vicar wiped his face, thrust his hands into his 
pockets, and paced the room. 

‘ ‘ Then he gave him brandy from a flask, lifted him 
to the road-side, and, as soon as Fenton had recovered 
breath and his senses, he left him — where you found 
him.” 

‘ ‘ And the story of the tramp ?’ ’ 

“A put-up tale, to save your feelings. Fenton 
knew it would be a terrible blow to you. Also, he 
hoped by secrecy to still make it easy for your son to 
do justice to the girl.” 

‘ ‘ And so he shall — and so he shall !’ ’ said the 
Vicar. 

“As if the confession had relieved the man’s body 
as well as his mind, he has got better ever since, and is 
likely to recover.” 

“Thank God for that!” said the Vicar. “To- 
morrow I will go and see him. To-day I will speak to 
my son, and make it easy, as you say, for him to 
marry this unhappy girl — if what you have told me is 
true. ’ ’ 

“You may depend on its being true,” said the In- 
spector ; ‘ ‘ but I am sorry to say that I have not ob- 
tained any trace of the girl. The night porter at Shrub 
Hill has an idea that she walked to that station and 
went to London by the night mail ; but he’s a good 
deal of a puddin’-head, the night porter at Shrub Hill, 
and it’s like looking for a needle in a bottle of hay to 
look for the girl in London. As for the fear that she 
might have committed suicide, her letter denies that 
strong enough, and she was not the sort ; she would 
be a courageous girl. Her father was a fine man, just 

ii6 


THE VICAR. 


as her mother is a molly-coddle ; and I haven’t a 
shadow of doubt she’s all right somewhere. She took 
with her at least thirty pounds, and when her trouble’s 
over, she’ll get employment, and write home. You’ll 
see if I am not right ; and, meantime, I won’ t relax 
any effort at hunting her up, depend upon it.” 

Then the Inspector, a grey-eyed, intelligent, well- 
built fellow, took up his cap and stick and stood at 
“Attention,” as if he had been a soldier who had con- 
cluded his report of a sortie. 

“ Thank you, Bradley. You were right in thinking 
your information would make me unhappy ; but I thank 
you all the same. You have done your duty ; I shall 
try and do mine. I will show you out, Bradley.” 

‘ ‘ Oh, thank you, sir, ’ ’ said Bradley, standing aside 
while the Vicar opened the door. “ You know that I 
would bring you good news with real pleasure. ’ ’ 

“I know, I know,” said the Vicar. “ Let us hope 
for a little sunshine ’ ’ 

‘ ‘ Couldn’ t have had finer harvest weather, your rev- 
erence, ’ ’ said Bradley, ‘ ‘ nor finer crops ; though it 
don’t make much difference to the farmer, considering 
as the imports fixes his price about the same, good 
crops or bad.” 

“That is so, I fear,” said the Vicar, by this time in 
the hall, where the Inspector touched his cap and they 
parted. 


17 


CHAPTER XVIL 

LORD CLEEVE’S CONFESSION TO THE VICAR. 

“ Oh, Tom, Tom !” said the Vicar, as he closed the 
door of his room, and sat down by the fire in a sorrow- 
ful humble mood. “Tom, Tom ! Perhaps it was in 
Divine forethought that your mother was taken away, 
that she might not break her heart in sorrow. . . . 
How happy the harvesters look ! They are sitting 
down to their tea. And yonder is Susannah, making 
it for them from the great urn. . . . Poor Susannah ! 
She will pity me, and love me the more, when she 
knows of my great disappointment. It was surely 
heaven that put it into my mind to have no compact 
made between Tom and that sweet girl. . . . Though 
I loved him, I knew he would be no match for her. 
And was she not a trust, she and her noble fortune ? 

. . . But it is a sin that can be repaired ! Lizzie is a 
gentle creature, learned in her girlish way, of excel- 
lent manners — and Tom is young. Both are young, 
both foolish. Why should we look for ripe fruit in the 
Spring time ? It may be all for the best. It is hard to 
say. . . . There are lovely and prosperous corners of 
the earth where the sinner and the unfortunate can 
make fresh starts in life, among strangers, who may 
come to love and respect them. . . . They could never 
live it down in Comberton, or Powyke, or Shrub Hill. 

. . . A new land, on a new road, with a new and 
sobered ambition ; and I can help them. . . . They 
need not want for money and encouragement. The 

ii8 


THE VICAR 


help of good prayers and honest ‘ God-speeds’ would 
be with them. . . . Yes, yes. Who knows? I may 
learn to love my daughter-in-law, and even bless the 
folly of my son. . . . And yet, I fear I am cheating 
myself into these optimistic hopes. ... It is a bitter 
grief !” 

Lord Cleeve, having knocked at the door without 
receiving any reply, had entered. He was in riding 
dress. 

“ I disturb you,” he said. 

“No; you could not be more welcome,” said the 
Vicar. 

‘ ‘ I thought this would be a good time to break in 
upon your privacy. ’ ’ 

* ‘ My room is ever open to you, Cleeve, as my 
heart is.” 

“Thank you, Hussingtree, thank you,” said his 
lordship. ‘ ‘ I know that we are all admitted presently ; 
it was a happy thought of Miss Woodcote to requisition 
the Vicar’s room for afternoon tea.” 

‘ ‘ Susannah dislikes formality ; but it is very good of 
everybody not to take exception to the widower’s tea- 
table. At present Susannah is making tea for the har- 
vesters, do you see?” 

The Vicar went to the window. His lordship stood 
by his side. 

“Yes. I saw her as I rode in from Cleeve.” 

‘ ‘ What did you ride, Cleeve, the steel horse or the 
real one, — the machine-made thing or the living com- 
panion ?’ ’ 

“ I rode the bay. Vicar ; but I could have come in 
half the time on the wheel.” 

“The world is altogether too much in a hurry, 
Cleeve, and life is becoming merely mechanical.” 

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THE VICAR 


“ I wonder if I am in a hurry in what I am going to 
say to you ?’ ’ 

‘ ‘ Let me hear what it is. Sit down, old friend. I 
hope you don’t bring me bad news.” 

“Bad news?” said Lord Cleeve. “Have you had 
bad news? You look rather sad ; I thought so as I 
entered the room.” 

‘ ‘ I have had news that is bad. I hope it may turn 
out for the best ; but a clergyman, Cleeve, sees a good 
deal of the dark side of life ; he has, however, his con- 
solations, and God knows what is best. But there, 
don’t mind me. I am a little disturbed. You come 
on some matter of business, eh? I long for a fresh 
subject of thought. What is it, Cleeve ? What is it ?’ ’ 

‘ ‘ Why, the truth is ’ ’ said his lordship, with 

hesitation, and patting his boot with his crop. 

“Well, the truth is — why all this hesitation ? Is the 
subject a pleasant one ?’ ’ 

“To me — yes — very ! But I ” 

‘ ‘ What is pleasant to you will always be pleasant to 
me.” 

Lord Cleeve flung himself back in his chair, and 
laughed. 

“ Well ?” said the Vicar, a smile playing around his 
genial mouth and wrinkling the crows’ -feet about his 
frank, honest eyes. 

‘ ‘ Upon my life, there must be something wrong 
about it, for I feel absurd in speaking of it.” 

“Well?” said the Vicar, encouragingly. 

“I could laugh at myself,” his lordship continued. 
“I’ll be generous; you shall have the laugh. You 
asked me if I had bad news for you. I don’t know 
whether it is good or bad ; at all events there is no 
disaster in it — so far.” 


120 


THE VICAR 


Too much prologue, Cleeve,” said the Vicar, “too 
much exordium ! Was it not Hamlet who urged the 
Player to come to Hecuba ?’ ’ 

‘ ‘ Dear old friend, ’ ’ Cleeve replied, dropping his 
voice and looking a little shame-faced, ‘ ‘ I am in love. ’ ’ 
‘ ‘ That does not appear to me to be absurd or laugh- 
able,” said the Vicar, his earnest eyes bent upon Cleeve, 
who felt as shy and bashful as a youth of twenty. 

‘ ‘ I am glad you think so, ’ ’ he said. 

“Love,” responded the Vicar, in his gentle way, 
“ is too beautiful to be laughed at. Nor is your decla- 
ration news, for that matter. I know you are in love, 
dear friend, and your love has my entire approval. 
But have you spoken to my ward ?’ ’ 

“To your ward!” said Cleeve. “How did you 
know ?’ ’ 

‘ ‘ How did I know 1 Why, there is not a person in 
the whole range of the Vicarage who doesn’t know it ; 
even the blind old retriever in the yard has had an ink- 
ling of it, I verily believe. The instinct of a dog is 
marvellous, and blind old Sally has of late taken a great 
fancy to you.” 

“Well, since you and everybody in the Vicarage 
and blind old Sally in the yard know all about it,” 
said Cleeve, regaining his usual composure, ‘ ‘ what do 
you wise people think of the matter ?’ ’ 

“Well, seriously, Cleeve,” the Vicar replied, 
“speaking as Susannah’s guardian, occupying the 
place of her father, loving her as if she were my own 
child, — I say that, although I have seen this love grow- 
ing under my eyes, your frank avowal of it gives me 
more pleasure than I have words to express. Susan- 
nah is a fortunate girl. I congratulate you both, and 
myself.” 

I2I 


THE VICAR 


The Vicar rose, and Cleeve stood up as the clergy- 
man took his hand and wrung it heartily. 

“Thank you, Hussingtree, old friend, thank you. 
You were always kind, and everything a generous 
friend and neighbour could be. But ’ ’ 

“ But?” said the Vicar. “ Out with it ; what is the 
‘ but ’ ? In every matter there are always ‘ buts’ and 
‘ ifs, ’ as there are spots on the sun. What is this par- 
ticular ‘ but’ of yours ?’ ’ 

“There are several ‘buts,’ and I don’t know how 
many ‘ ifs,’ ” said Cleeve. 

“ Name them.” 

“ In the first place, do you think it possible that Su- 
sannah’s affections may be already engaged?” 

‘ ‘ I know they are not. ’ ’ 

“ You know ?” 

“Yes.” 

“ She has told you so ?” 

“No.” 

“ Would a young girl confide a secret of that kind 
to any man other than the fortunate individual ; even 
to her own guardians, good and gracious and intimate 
as they might be ? I am not much versed in these 
mysteries of the heart ; but ’ ’ 

“ I know Susannah ; she would never for a moment 
dream of keeping from me anything so vital to her hap- 
piness, and mine. Her young life has been to me an 
open book for more than half of it. Besides, how could 
she possibly have had an opportunity of contracting so 
strong a sentiment for any one without my knowledge ? 
Why, my dear friend, if I had been a jealous duenna 
instead of a mere country parson, I could not have 
been closer to her as companion and friend. ’ ’ 

“I know it, Hussingtree, I know it, and yet that 
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THE VICAR 


is a ‘ but’ I feel I have to count with ’ and he thought 
of the little scene in Lady Berwick’s garden. It is true 
nothing had occurred since to justify in the least her 
ladyship’s suggestions. He had long since come to the 
conclusion that they belonged to some social scheme 
of Lady Berwick’s that he could not fathom. Further- 
more, he had deemed it right, as it was courageous, 
to enter the lists for the girl, whether Tom or any 
other were his rival. He might lose her, for the very 
reason that he had not put her gage in his casque and 
couched a lance as her champion and suitor ; so, on 
this Autumn afternoon, he had ridden over from Cleeve 
House to ask the Vicar’s consent that he should lay 
his life and fortune at the feet of his ward — and it was 
no inconsiderable fortune, coupled with an unblemished 
title in the history of Imperial England. 

“ I think there is, after all, only one other important 
* but, ’ ’ ’ said Cleeve. ‘ ‘ What will everybody say — 
Susannah in particular — to the fact that I am forty ?’ ’ 

“I know what they ought to say, — that you have 
had twenty years of a man’s experience of the world, 
that you are young enough to keep a woman’s love and 
old enough to guard it.” 

They both turned, as the door opened. Tom paused. 

‘ ‘ Oh, I beg pardon. I thought you were in the 
garden, father. Beg pardon. Lord Cleeve. I only 
wanted to write a note. I’ll do it in my own room.” 

“Tom,” said the Vicar. 

“Yes, father.” 

“I particularly desire to speak with you.” 

“Yes ?” 

‘ ‘ When you have written your note, come down to 
me.” 

“All right,” said Tom, in a free-and-easy manner ; 

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remarking, as he closed the door behind him, “ What’s 
up now, I wonder ?’ ’ 

“Cleeve,” said the Vicar, pushing his chair aside 
and walking to the window, ‘ ‘ I wish I had had such a 
son as your father had. ’ ’ 

‘ ‘ And would that I had been more worthy of one of 
the best fathers that ever lived !” 

“ He was indeed a good and most kind man, your 
father, Cleeve.” 

‘ ‘ I count you next in everything that ennobles 
humanity,” Cleeve replied. 

“Tom gives me great anxiety. He was the apple of 
his mother’s eye ; I have loved him very dearly.” 

‘ ‘ He is young, ’ ’ said Cleeve ; ‘ ‘ you must not take 
him too seriously. Youth will be youth ; and there, by 
the way, he has the best of us both. Vicar.” 

“ In what respect?” asked the Vicar, musingly. 

‘ ‘ He has plenty of time to mend his faults ; he is at 
the beginning of his career. I wish I were his age.” 

“We will not talk of him,” said the Vicar, coming 
back to his seat ; ‘ ‘ not at present, at least ; we will 
talk of you, and of Susannah. My dear Cleeve, you 
have my consent to your suit, and my support. Shall 
I speak to her first ?’ ’ 

‘ ‘ As you think best, ’ ’ said Cleeve. ‘ ‘ I place myself 
in your hands. ’ ’ 

“ I will consider it. In the mean time you have my 
full permission to woo her and to win her. She ought to 
be here now ; she has been with the harvesters, and the 
gleaners who follow them between the stacked sheaves, 
this last two hours. It would be a joy to me to be the 
first to tell her the good news. ’ ’ 

“That is no secret, you say,” said Cleeve, smiling. 
“ Do you think blind Sally in the yard will know 
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when it has become the common property of the 
county ?” 

Rogers entered with a bright silver tray of tea- 
things. 

“ So late, is it?” said the Vicar. ” We will resume 
our pleasant talk by and by adding, in a low voice, 

when you, or I perhaps, have spoken to Susannah, 
eh ?” 

“Yes,” said Cleeve, as a carriage and a pair passed 
along the distant road that was partially screened from 
the Vicarage by a sunk fence. 

They both observed the vehicle and the smart livery 
of driver and footman as the landau skirted the lawn. 

“ The Lady of Powyke,” said the Vicar, “ for a cup 
of tea ; a charming woman. Lady Berwick. ’ ’ 

“Yes,” said Cleeve. 

‘ ‘ Susannah should have returned ere this. ’ ’ 

The servant drew an old oak tea-table near the fire. 
The sun had declined, and there was a snap of cold in 
the air. The tea-urn bubbled. There was the whitest 
of white bread and butter on the handsomest of dishes, 
and the most succulent of tea-cakes under a silver 
cover. The tea-service was old Crown Derby, rich 
with blue and red and golden rims. The table was a 
picture ; as, indeed, the room was, the outer scene of 
wheat and yellowing trees set in a frame of diamond 
panes, the centre window a long, deep bay of double 
doors, opening upon the garden. 

Presently, radiant with dainty frills and chiffon cape, 
Lady Berwick, being duly announced, came sailing in 
like a spick and span yacht with flowing canvas and 
Imperial colours. She may be said to have dipped her 
ensign to Lord Cleeve with a royal flourish, while she 
saluted the Vicar with all her guns. It raised the dear 
125 


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old clergyman’s spirits to see her. He kissed the hand 
held out to him with a courtly recognition of her lady- 
ship’s friendly smile. 

‘ ‘ And you, Lord Cleeve ! So glad to see you, and 
looking so fresh and well ; at the same time sorry to 
interrupt your ’ ’ 

“ Not at all,” said Lord Cleeve. 

” Our pleasant chat was at an end,” said the Vicar ; 
‘ ‘ by and by you shall know all about it ; eh. Lord 
Cleeve?” 

“ By all means,” said his lordship, with just a little 
hesitation. 

“If it is a secret, better not trust me ; I’m only a 
woman,’’ said her ladyship. “ But there, I must apolo- 
gise again. I don’ t think Susannah expected me ; and 
indeed, I had almost forgotten, until an hour or two 
ago, that it is my day for settling-up ; is it not so. 
Vicar?” 

“Why, yes, I believe it is; ‘The Widows’ Fund,’ 
quite so. ’ ’ 

‘ ‘ Doesn’ t settling-up sound like business ?’ ’ 

She turned toward Lord Cleeve as she spoke. 

“ It is business, is it not. Lady Berwick?” 

“Just so ; and it is very shrewd on my part to com- 
bine it with pleasure ; a cup of tea, nice company, and 
settling-up, all at the same time. One moment — just 
let me place this half-crown in a place of security ; it 
is inside my glove ; didn’t you feel it when we shook 
hands ?’ ’ 

Cleeve smiled, and bent his eyes upon her hand as 
she ungloved it and exhibited a half-crown. Then 
she took out a purse and emptied it upon the Vicar’s 
writing-table. 

“Ten pounds, twelve shillings, and nine pence half- 
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penny. And one sovereign more — the widow’s mite — 
I am the widow, Lord Cleeve, — makes eleven pounds, 
twelve shillings, and ten pence half-penny. . . . And 
three half-pence for your thoughts, and we shall have 
something like even money.” 

‘ ‘ But you will still be out, if you pay for my 
thoughts,” said Cleeve. 

‘ ‘ Then you shall give me three half-pence, and keep 
your secret, eh ?’ ’ 

“You are very considerate,” said Cleeve. 

“Moreover,” said her ladyship, as she unhooked 
her cape and laid it upon a chair, ‘ ‘ pence are so hard 
to count ; suppose we say pounds ?’ ’ 

“ Perhaps that will be better,” said Cleeve, dropping 
a sovereign upon the little heap of money. 

‘ ‘ ‘ Thank you, kindly, ’ ’ ’ said her ladyship, with a 
coquettish curtsey, “ ‘sir, she said, sir, she said, I 
thank you kindly, good sir, she said.’ ” 

“Always in high spirits,” said the Vicar. “ You are 
like what an old friend of mine used to call a westerly 
breeze blowing across a hundred acres of mowing 
grass. ’ ’ 

“He was a poet. Vicar,” her ladyship answered, 
‘ ‘ with something young and lovely in his mind ; not a 
poor widow in the Autumn of her days. ’ ’ 

“There is the beauty of the Spring, Lady Berwick, 
and the beauty of the Autumn ; and many a poet has 
found a finer inspiration for his Muse at harvest time 
than in the fickle days of Spring. ’ ’ < 

“ Isn’t the Vicar sweet?” said her ladyship, turning 
to Cleeve. 

“You bring such good spirits with you. Lady Ber- 
wick ; you are an antidote to sad thoughts. I often 
tell Susannah, when I contemplate a call at Powyke 
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House, that I am going to be cheered, to seek a tonic 
in the atmosphere of Lady Berwick’s domain.” 

“ If it were not for you and Susannah, and the Vicar- 
age, dear Mr. Hussingtree, I should incontinently quit 
Powyke House. But there a truce to compliments. 
I must get on with my business, ’ ’ and she proceeded 
to count the money on the table. ‘ ‘ Sovereigns are such 
easy things to reckon. Let me see — twelve pounds, 
twelve shillings, and ten pence half-penny ’ ’ 

“And that half-crown,” said the Vicar, his clean- 
shaven face wreathed in smiles. 

‘ ‘ Oh, yes ; don’ t let me forget that dear, sweet half- 
crown,” said Lady Berwick, with a gaiety of manner 
that seemed to Lord Cleeve a good deal forced, but to 
the Vicar the frank mirthfulness of a kindly nature. 
“ I got that solid-looking coin with George the Third’s 
booby face upon it, — I beg pardon, no offence to the 
royalties of to-day or the aristocracy in general ; I am 
a staunch Imperialist, — I got that half-crown, as I was 
saying, from Miles, the butcher. Oh, what a time it 
took me to argue him out of it ! No one had ever 
induced him to subscribe to a charity before ; but I 
coaxed and smiled, and wheedled him ! One may do 
such things for a good cause, you know. Lord Cleeve. ’ ’ 

“Oh, yes, certainly.” 

‘ ‘ Until at last poor Miles dropped a shoulder of mut- 
ton with a sigh, took that half-crown from his pocket, 
wiped it on his blue apron, and handed it to me with a 
bow ! Twelve pounds, fifteen shillings, and four pence 
half-penny for the poor widows. Bless me ! It is worth 
twice the money to collect it. But one must have 
something to do.” 

“ Something to do, indeed !” said the Vicar. “ You 
are everlastingly at work for other people; but you have 
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your reward in the happiness that comes of good deeds 
and acts of real charity. . . . Ah, at last here comes 
Susannah. ’ ’ 

The Vicar’s ward appeared at the window that opened 
upon the lawn, her arms full of wheat. Lord Cleeve 
was nearest the window, and opened it. With flushed 
face, and a garden hat somewhat awry, Susannah en- 
tered. 

‘ ‘ Lady Berwick, how do you do ? And Lord Cleeve ? 
I have been playing truant ; pray excuse me, I had not 
e::pected the pleasure of seeing you to-day ; but it is a 
very great pleasure. I hope you will excuse me ; I 
have been gleaning with the children of the village. 
And I thought I would have a loaf made of it. If I 
can get this ground, do you think there is enough to 
make one ? I should so enjoy it !’ ’ 

“My darling !’’ said the Vicar, playfully, “you have 
been taking what belongs to the poor, while Lady 
Berwick has been gleaning for the poor. See !” 

He pointed to the money on the table. 

“My settling- up day, you know, Susannah,” said 
Lady Berwick. 

“ Oh, but I didn’t mean to eat all the loaf myself,” 
said Susannah, with a little laugh, “and money is not 
so beautiful as corn. Moreover, I didn’ t intend to rob 
anybody. ’ ’ 

“ My dear, I did not mean that,” said the Vicar. 

“I know, dear, I know,” she replied. “But they 
shall have my money, and I’ll keep the corn.” 

Hugging her little golden sheaf under one arm while 
she drew forth her purse, she emptied it upon Lady 
Berwick’s miscellaneous pile, saying, “There, Lady 
Berwick, that’s the price of my gleaning.” 

“Thank you, my love ; but you’ve quite upset my 
9 129 


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accounts,” said Lady Berwick, with a vague fear in her 
heart that her accounts in some other direction were 
about to be upset. 

“Don’t mind that. Lady Berwick; I’ll put them 
straight for you,” said the Vicar. 

Then taking Susannah by the hand, he withdrew her 
to a seat apart ; and, glancing at Cleeve and Lady Ber- 
wick, he said, ‘ ‘ Pray excuse me a little while ; I have 
something interesting to say to Susannah.” 

Lord Cleeve looked anxiously at the Vicar, Lady 
Berwick shot enquiring glances at Lord Cleeve. The 
Vicar was too happy to observe the pained, if not pro- 
testing, expression on Cleeve’ s face. He thought the 
presence of their dear friend and neighbour. Lady Ber- 
wick, made the time more opportune than otherwise 
for his disclosure of Cleeve’ s proposal for his ward. It 
was hardly discreet to surprise the girl on so moment- 
ous a matter ; but the Vicar, with all his sober experi- 
ence of life, was occasionally impulsive ; never more so 
than on this occasion. 

“A delightful girl, is she not?” said Lady Berwick, 
in an aside to Cleeve, who, while retreating to the 
further end of the room, still kept his eyes on the Vicar 
and Susannah. 

“Very,” he answered. 

‘ ‘ So unsophisticated, and yet so well informed, ’ ’ said 
her ladyship. 

“Yes,” said his lordship. 

“Seems to be a serious conversation,” said her lady- 
ship. ‘ ‘ Shall we walk in the garden ?’ ’ 

“ Perhaps it might be as well,” said his lordship. 

Cleeve offered her his arm. As she took it, she said, 
“Susannah has not only upset my accounts, but the 
tea-urn is singing and the tea is waiting to be made.” 

130 


CHAPTER XVIII. 


THE widow’s game BECOMES SERIOUS. 

“ I HAVE such good news for you, Susannah,” said 
the Vicar, “ the best you ever heard.” 

She was sitting on a hassock by his knee, the little 
sheaf of wheat still in her hand. 

‘ ‘ Indeed, dear ?’ ’ she said. 

She always called the Vicar “dear” when he was 
confidential with her and seemed to be leaning upon 
her affection for him, which was as real and true as if 
he had indeed been her father. Nothing of interest 
passed at the Vicarage, or hardly ever in their separate 
experiences, that they did not talk over together. 

‘ ‘ Whom does the good news concern ?’ ’ she asked. 

“Yourself, my love, and some one whom you esteem 
very much.” 

“ Tom?” she queried, a slight tremor in the tone of 
her voice. 

“Tom !” repeated the Vicar, with a quick change of 
manner, from joy to sadness. “ No, not Tom ; Lord 
Cleeve ! Now, don’t you think he is the best gentle- 
man you know ?” 

‘ ‘ I admire and respect him very much — almost as 
much as I do you,” she answered, with a great sense 
of relief for the moment. 

‘ ‘ As much as you admire and respect me ! But we 
are quite different. I’m an old fogey, he’s a young 
fellow ; quite young ; don’t you consider him young?” 

The Vicar detected, as he thought, a smiling nega- 
tive to his suggestion of Cleeve’ s youthfulness. 

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“ Oh, yes, he’s young for his age,” said Susannah. 

“That’s what I say; very young for his age. 
And what is his age? Forty; not a day more, and 
looks ten years less, in manner, alertness, appearance. 
Why, bless me, compared with some men I know, he’s 
a mere boy,” said the Vicar, growing enthusiastic and 
allowing himself a certain poetic and friendly licence in 
speaking of his friend, the son of a father of whose 
companionship he had been proud ; “a mere boy, my 
love, a mere boy !” 

“In another ten years he’ll be old enough to marry 
and settle down,” said Susannah, becoming a little 
reckless in her emphasis of Cleeve’s age. 

“That's it,” said the Vicar. “He thinks of mar- 
rying.” 

“Yes?” said Susannah, noting with some concern 
the triumphant way in which the Vicar looked at her, 
and remembering that he said he had good news for 
her. 

“ Now, don’t you think any woman should be proud 
to be his wife ?’ ’ 

“Yes, indeed ; he is worthy of the noblest woman 
in the world ;’’ and this she said with an honest convic- 
tion of its truth. 

“ He is, my love ; and I believe he has found that 
woman. ’ ’ 

“ Do I know her?” 

“I’ll show you her portrait,” he answered, taking 
from his pocket a miniature which she tried to see. 
“No,” he continued, replacing the picture and raising 
his now somewhat anxious ward to her feet, and lead- 
ing her to a mirror. “She looks better there, with 
nature’s fresh glowing colour upon her face.” 

At which moment Lord Cleeve and Lady Berwick 
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returned, her ladyship declaring that she was dying for 
a cup of tea. 

‘ ‘ Do YOU mean me ?’ ’ exclaimed Susannah, her 
loosely b>{)und gleanings falling around her. 

“What is the matter?” inquired Lady Berwick, 
coming forward ; while Lord Cleeve remained by the 
,door, uncertain whether to stay or to leave the 
room. 

“ Nothing is the matter,” said the Vicar, “nothing 
is the matter ; but I have told Susannah such good 
news that it has taken her aback. I suppose I was too 
precipitate ; I should have waited.” 

Susannah stooped to pick up her wheat and hide her 
agitation. 

‘ ‘ What news, may I ask ?’ ’ said Lady Berwick, 
taking up a kind of protective attitude by the side of 
Susannah and helping her to regather her gleanings ; 
at the same time whispering, ‘ ‘ Don’ t give way, dear ; 
I am with you.” 

“The best news that I have breathed for years. 
You are so good and kind, dear Lady Berwick, and so 
dear to us as a neighbour, that you will, I know, share 
my joy^ — our joy — my best loved friend. Lord Cleeve 
has proposed for my darling. Have we not reason to 
be happy ?’ ’ 

Lady Berwick felt as if for a moment her heart stood 
still ; but she quickly recovered her self-possession. 

‘ ‘ She must feel the compliment, even if ’ ’ 

“Even if — ?” repeated the Vicar ; and Susannah, 
unable to control her emotion, burst into tears. 

“Why, my darling,” said the Vicar, drawing her 
tenderly to his side, “ you must not yield to your feel- 
ings in this way. It is a great happiness, greater than 
you in your innocence ever hoped for, but not greater 
133 


THE VICAR 

than you deserve. Come, my dear, take your future 
husband’s hand.” 

The Vicar, as he led the girl towards Lord Cleeve, 
who was greatly disturbed at the somewhat dramatic 
turn the affair had taken, remarked, almost with tears 
in his eyes, “Oh, Lady Berwick, it will be a happy 
moment for me when, to these young people, so dear 
to me, I repeat the sweet Service of Marriage.” 

Susannah could bear the situation no longer. She 
suddenly broke from the Vicar, and threw herself into 
Lady Berwick’s arms, “Oh, Lady Berwick! Tell 
them I Tell them I I cannot I” she cried, trembling 
with emotion. 

Lord Cleeve turned his pained and anxious face to 
the Vicar, who looked from one to the other with an ex- 
pression of bewildered inquiry. 

‘ ‘ What is this ? What is there to tell ?’ ’ 

‘ ‘ I hardly know if I should speak before Lord 
Cleeve,” said the Lady of Powyke. 

His lordship made as if to leave the room. 

“Oh, yes,” said Susannah, “let him know the 
truth. How can he forgive me else ? How can he 
ever forgive me ? How can I forgive myself ?’ ’ 

“ Forgive you, Miss Woodcote ?” said Lord Cleeve. 

‘ ‘ Oh, yes. It seems so dreadful that I should say 
No. But I cannot help it. Can I, Lady Berwick ?’ ’ 

‘ ‘ Sit down, dear, and don’ t be so disturbed, ’ ’ Lady 
Berwick replied, gently placing the girl in a chair 
against which she was partially leaning. “ It is a mat- 
ter to be proud of, not to weep over. Young love is 
the poet’s theme; and even the Vicar was young 
once. ’ ’ 

“ Young love I What is all this, Lady Berwick ?” 

‘ ‘ The dear child is engaged already. ’ ’ 

134 


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* ‘ Engaged without my leave, without my knowl- 
edge !” 

“Oh, I knew it was wrong!” sobbed Susannah. 
“ I knew it was wrong 1” 

“Forgive me — I will retire,” interrupted Lord 
Cleeve, the picture of misery. 

“No, Cleeve, no,” said the Vicar, in an authorita- 
tive manner. “We have no secrets here, or at least 
should have none. Will you explain this matter. Lady 
Berwick, or shall my ward do so?” 

‘ ‘ Speak for me. Lady Berwick, speak for me 1’ ’ said 
the girl. 

“You have no cause to be troubled, dear friend. 
She is engaged to one as dear to you as Lord Cleeve. 
They are matched in years and in tastes, and the secret 
was only kept because we thought her lover should 
have time to make his mark in the world before he 
claimed so beautiful a reward. ’ ’ 

Having written his note, and thinking afternoon tea 
would be over instead of which it had not begun, Tom 
sauntered into the room, unseen by the Vicar, who, 
turning upon Lady Berwick, had demanded, ‘ ‘ Who is 
the man ?’ ’ 

“You have really no cause to be angered,” said 
Lady Berwick, with intrepid coolness ; “he stands 
beside you — your own son 1’ ’ 

A dead silence followed Lady Berwick’s defiant 
declaration. Tom, ignorant of everything that had 
happened, but smarting from the manner in which his 
father had ordered him to come to him, kicked the 
wheat that was lying on the floor, at the same time re- 
marking, as if to himself, “What’s all this damned 
litter?” 

* ‘ Litter I’ ’ said the Vicar, finding in the remark a 

135 


THE VICAR 


momentary relief from the tension of recent disclosures, 
“ Litter ! You don’t know the glad hands that gath- 
ered it, the dear hands that dropped it, the troubled 
hands that were picking it up ! Oh, Tom, oh, Tom !” 

Then, with a great effort to control his agitation, the 
Vicar turned to the others, saying, in a tone of appeal. 

Dear friends, this is a greater trouble to me than you 
can guess. Pardon me, I must ask you to leave me 
with my son. Susannah will order tea in the drawing- 
room. I will come to you presently. ’ ’ 


136 


CHAPTER XIX. 


LADY BERWICK AS FRIEND AND COMFORTER. 

When the Vicar joined them presently, he found 
Lady Berwick, Lord Cleeve, and Susannah bravely 
awaiting his coming. Lord Cleeve had accepted the 
position with singular tact and good feeling. He had 
begged Susannah and Lady Berwick, so far as he was 
concerned, to dismiss from their minds all consideration 
for him, his interests, or his feelings. Nothing that 
could happen would change his sincere regard for Miss 
Woodcote. He was not altogether sorry that he had 
been indiscreet enough to indulge in warmer sentiments 
and to have expressed them, since it had relieved Miss 
Woodcote of a secret that must have been something 
of a burden to her and a shadow on her relationship 
with her guardian. 

Lady Berwick affected to take a light and airy view 
of the Vicar’s disappointment, and endeavoured to 
console Lord Cleeve with some of her experiences. 
She agreed that rarely could three persons have been 
placed in a more difficult situation than they at that 
moment. Happily they were friends, happily they en- 
tertained feelings towards each other that were in no 
wise selfish ; and, furthermore, no one in the outside 
world need know what had occurred. 

For that matter, Lord Cleeve said, he was quite in- 
different, except in so far as Miss Woodcote’ s wishes 
were concerned. Encouraged by Lady Berwick, Susan- 
nah did her best to take part in the conversation, but 
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THE VICAR 


was very ill at ease and greatly disturbed. She was too 
generous to allow herself to detect in the suddenness 
of Tom’s love-making, and Lady Berwick’s furtherance 
of it into an engagement, anything in the shape of con- 
spiracy or intrigue. 

At the same time she had felt in her heart a stronger 
emotion of regret at her unfaithfulness to the Vicar than 
of love for Tom. Indeed, she did not know what love 
was. She had naturally taken an interest in Tom, had 
admired his manly ways, enjoyed riding with him, re- 
joiced in his successes in the cricket-field and on the 
river, but had no thought of him beyond a sisterly kind 
of affection, until Lady Berwick pleaded so hard for 
him and aroused in her a sentiment rather of pity than 
of love, or touched a chord of friendship deeper than 
she had felt before, emphasised by a belief in the wis- 
dom and kindly guidance of Lady Berwick. A less 
generous girl, and one having a knowledge of Society, 
might have had her doubts about the sincerity of Lady 
Berwick, and been shrewd enough at least to have sus- 
pected the sincerity of her ladyship’s friendship and 
the underlying tenderness of Lord Cleeve’s attentions. 

Susannah’s distress had been augmented by Lord 
Cleeve’s proposal, though at present she did not realise 
how much of disappointment on her own account there 
was in her sympathy with that of his lordship. To have 
made such a sacrifice, only to have his pride wounded, 
and through her ! It was pitiable, in her estimation, 
that Lord Cleeve should have done her so great an 
honour with so humiliating a result. She would have 
done almost anything rather than have hurt the sensi- 
bilities of the Vicar’s dearest friend, in whose society 
she had spent so many happy hours. 

It might have been possible that the Vicar’s declara- 
138 


THE VICAR 


tion of Lord Cleeve’s feelings towards Susannah would 
have been received in a different .manner if Susannah 
had known the truth of the betrayal of Lizzie Melford. 
She had spent hours with Mrs. Macfarlane, consoling 
and comforting her, but without the faintest suspicion 
of the relationship between the girl and the Vicar’s 
son. David Macfarlane had been perfidious enough to 
drop unfriendly hints about Luke Fenton. The fact 
that Luke had disappeared the very day on which 
Lizzie went away was considered sufficient for most of 
the villagers to lay the blame of the girl’s trouble upon 
the man who was known by all Comberton to be madly 
in love with her. Indeed, Susannah did not altogether 
understand the immediate and unhappy reason for 
Lizzie’s disappearance. Mrs. Macfarlane was very 
vague in her explanations, and Lizzie’s step-father had 
simply held forth against women who were above their 
station, the folly of giving girls high notions and a 
kind of education that unfitted them for useful work. 
At the same time he had, in his hard Scotch way, been 
down upon Luke Fenton, who had preferred book- 
learning to honest trade, always linking Luke’s name 
with Lizzie’s, so as to screen Tom Hussingtree from 
any thought or suggestion of suspicion. In this way, 
and by Tom’s own cleverness, he had kept himself clear 
of the village talk and the least suspicion at the Vicar- 
age. 

Lord Cleeve knew Tom as a by no means desirable 
mate for Miss Woodcote. Partly in consequence of 
what Lady Berwick had said on that memorable day at 
Powyke House and partly by reason of sufficient time 
having elapsed for some outward sign to be made in the 
direction of her ladyship’ s forecast, he had resolved to 
risk his own happiness by a declaration of his love. If 

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THE VICAR 


Tom Hussingtree, he argued, was really a rival, every- 
body would surely have known it by this time. Susan- 
nah would have shown her preference for Tom’s society. 
Tom would have boasted of his conquest, if not openly, 
at least by some sign or other of triumph. Moreover, 
if the garden scene that Lady Berwick had shown him 
had the special meaning she more than hinted at, the 
lovers would ere this have asked the consent and the 
blessing of the Vicar. When he came to think of it, what 
was there in Tom and Susannah walking together in 
Lady Berwick’s grounds? Did they not ride together 
frequently ? Had they not been more or less of com- 
panions all their young lives? And why did Lady 
Berwick desire so fervently to impress him with the 
possibility of their eventual union? Was it because 
she knew the Vicar would not approve of it ? Or had 
she some ulterior motive ? He would not confess to 
himself that Lady Berwick had an eye on the higher 
title and status of the Countess of Cleeve. Nor would 
he let himself believe that she had fathomed the secret 
of his love for Susannah, which, as he learnt afterwards 
from the Vicar, was anybody’s secret but Susannah’s ; 
she, poor child, had never for a moment thought her- 
self worthy of so much distinction, for, of all men who 
had ever visited at the Vicarage or to whom she had been 
introduced at any time. Lord Cleeve seemed to her the 
most finished gentleman, the most interesting, chival- 
rous and learned, without pluming himself upon his 
abilities, his knowledge, or his personal appearance. 
If these had been the days of chivalry. Lord Cleeve, 
in her estimation, would have been the noblest of 
the Knights of the Round Table, the quintessence of 
romance and chivalry. 

The Vicar came back to his three dear friends with 
140 


THE VICAR 


an enforced self-possessed expression of countenance. 
It was’ easy to see that lie had been greatly agi- 
tated. 

‘ ‘ I feared you might have been too impatient or dis- 
tressed to remain,” he said, taking Susannah’s face 
between his hands and kissing her on both cheeks. 
” My poor child, you have been greatly deceived.” 

Lady Berwick thought he looked at her with an 
expression of rebuke. 

‘ ‘ Deceived ?’ ’ she said. ‘ ‘ By whom, my dear Vicar, 
by whom ?” 

‘ ‘ By my unhappy son. But we will say no more 
about it at present. The ways of God are mysterious 
as they are righteous, and it is for His creatures to bow 
before them meekly and without question. My son has 
committed a great wrong ’ ’ 

“Nay, Hussingtree,” said Lord Cleeve, “don’t say 
that. I fear I have been both inconsiderate and ’ ’ 

“You don’t understand, Cleeve; you will do so, 
sooner or later. Meanwhile, let us not blame each 
other. It is not to Tom’s love for my ward that I refer 
- — for who could help loving her ? — it is to other mat- 
ters. At present I have no desire to say how unworthy 
I think my son of a good woman’s trust. We must be 
patient. But above all, my dear Cleeve, you must not 
let what has happened interfere with our old friendship 
nor with your visits to the Vicarage. Susannah will 
still be free to conduct the social hospitalities of the 
Vicarage, whoever may be my guests. It would be a 
calamity indeed if any thoughtlessness on her part, or 
let us say predilection or favour in respect of my son, 
should estrange any of us. I am sure Lady Berwick, 
in sharing the confidence of my son and Susannah, only 
had their happiness in view, however gravely mistaken 
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THE VICAR 


she may have been, or however misinformed concerning 
my son’s claims to any possible approval of mine in a 
suit he should never have thought of. He knew my 

views explicitly, and ” 

‘ ‘ But we were to say no more about it at present, 
dear friend,” interposed Lord Cleeve, “and you are 
adding to the embarrassment of Miss Woodcote. I 
think it were as well that we should part for the present. 
You may rely upon it I will not permit what has passed 
to influence my friendship for your ward ; I am much 
to blame.” 

Susannah turned an appealing face to his lordship, 
and, with a dignity of bearing and manner that sur- 
prised them all, said, “ Lord Cleeve, there is no one to 
blame, or at all events to be blamed. I feel deeply the 
honour you have conferred upon me. Though a prior 
engagement has not enabled me to entertain your most 
gracious proposal, it would be grievous if it should 
cause us, myself in particular, the loss of your neigh- 
bourly visits. ’ ’ 

“ I thank you sincerely. Miss Woodcote,” said his 
lordship, with a tremor in his voice that he could not 
control. 

“Who knows,” remarked Lady ' Berwick, “that 
what has happened may not be for the best ?’ ’ 

“ I pray God it may be so,” said the Vicar, earnestly. 
“ My son will leave England for some time. Not on 
account of the confession my ward and Lady Berwick 
had to make to us, Lord Cleeve, but for other reasons 
wholly different. You shall know all at some other 
time, when we are calmer, and more capable of judging 

him and ourselves in this unhappy business ; and ” 

“Tea has been placed in the drawing-room,” said 
Rogers, standing in the doorway. 

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‘‘Tea!” said the Vicar, with a pathetic glance at 
Susannah. ‘ ‘ Why, then let us go into tea. ’ ’ 

Lord Cleeve begged to be excused. The Vicar pro- 
tested. His lordship wanted to go, and at the same 
time desired to remain. Something in Susannah’s 
manner tugged at his heart-strings. Now that he 
knew she was out of his reach, he loved her all the 
more. While grateful to her for her support of the 
Vicar’s desire that he should still continue his visits to 
the Vicarage, he resolved to put miles between him and 
the temptation of being unjust to his rival or embarrass- 
ing to Susannah. He would wait for the chance of a 
possible renewal of his proposals, but he would wait at 
a distance. Since Tom was to be exiled, he would not 
seek to remain and gain an undue advantage over him. 
Nevertheless he stayed to “Afternoon tea,” now nigh 
bordering on the dinner hour. Lady Berwick asked 
Susannah’s permission to play the part of hostess. 
Susannah readily accorded her ladyship full powers. 
Lady Berwick ventured to tell the servant that they 
would dispense with his services. ‘ ‘ So much better 
to be alone,” she said, as Rogers retired. No one 
disputed her dictum. 

The party was as sadly cheerful as mourners after 
a funeral. Lady Berwick worked hard to dispel the 
gloom, and to a great extent succeeded. She was as 
gracious as she was charming. Having brought about 
all the mischief, she endeavoured to make it easy to 
the sufferers. It was a genuine effort, and she tried to 
believe that it was generous also. Her plan of cam- 
paign was prospering. It was not yet “ Checkmate,” 
but, encouraged by the rapid success of her opening 
moves, she was full of hope. There had been very anx- 
ious moments. These had passed. What the Vicar 
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THE VICAR 


regarded as the widow’s sympathy for her suffering 
friends was a complacent self-love. She, nevertheless, 
almost cheated herself into the belief that she was the 
fairy god-mother of the party, the disinterested friend, 
the loving neighbour. 

The Vicar felt the influence of her womanly sympa- 
thy, shown more in her manner and the tender expres- 
sion of her face than in words. 

“ It will refresh you. Vicar ; there is nothing like a 
cup of tea, ’ ’ she said ; ‘ ‘ there is magic in it. I declare 
Lord Cleeve already looks the better for it. ’ ’ 

“ Did I look ill. Lady Berwick?” 

“ No, not ill ; but we have all had a bad quarter of an 
hour. Who makes this wonderful cake, Susannah ?’ ’ 

“The cook, dear Lady Berwick,” said Susannah, 
her mind far away from cooks and cakes. 

‘ ‘ I shall send my maid for the recipe, ’ ’ said her 
ladyship. “Your cook must be a North country- 
woman. Did you ever have cakes in the North, Lord 
Cleeve ?’ ’ 

“ Oh, yes,” said his lordship, “and ale, too.” 

‘ ‘ Really ! I thought their cakes always went with 
afternoon tea.” 

“Occasionally with ale,” said his' lordship. “An 
thou art virtuous, shall there be no more cakes and 
ale ?” 

“And ginger shall be kept hot i’ the mouth,” said 
the Vicar, with a forced smile. “ We don’t forget our 
Shakespeare, eh, Cleeve?” 

“Oh, that’s where it comes from,” said her lady- 
ship, refilling the Vicar’s cup. “Cakes and ale, of 
course ; but I was not thinking of Shakespeare. Lord 
Cleeve is much too learned for me. ’ ’ 

‘ ‘ But, my dear Lady Berwick, it is not learned to 
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quote Shakespeare ; we are doing so unconsciously all 
day. Shakespeare is the English language.” 

‘ ‘ But he could never have known anything about 
North country cakes,” said her ladyship. 

” My dear Lady Berwick, he knew everything.” 

” Lady Berwick’s carriage,” said Rogers, once more 
breaking in upon the assumed sociability of the little 
company. 

“Thank you,” said her ladyship. 

“And will you be good enough to ask James to sad- 
dle my horse,” said Lord Cleeve. 

A few minutes later the sun went down in a soft and 
loving embrace of the Vicarage, and with a flood of 
golden light upon the fields where Susannah had been 
gleaning so happily with the children an hour or two 
before. She and the Vicar, having said Good-bye to 
their two friends, still watched their departure from the 
Gothic porch, until Lord Cleeve had disappeared behind 
the hillside on the Western Road and the equipage of 
Lady Berwick had carried glints of sunshine in its silver 
trappings along the road that divided the sunk fence 
and the rows of wheat sheaves into the falling shadows 
of the Northern highway. Then, all being still, except 
for the melancholy cry of the corn-crake, the old man 
drew his arm tenderly around the young girl, and she 
fell upon his neck and wept. 


lO 


145 


CHAPTER XX. 


“there’s nae luck about the house.” 

“ I AM constrained to gie ye notice, Veecar.” 

‘ ‘ Constrained, are you ?’ ’ the Vicar replied. 

“It’s an expression I’ve heard ye use frequently,” 
said David, with a hard, determined look of defiance. 

“ Very well,” the Vicar replied. “ Go on.” 

“To gie ye notice wi’ all respect,” said David, 
“that I’ll be quitting yer service.” 

“For another and a better, I hope,” the Vicar re- 
plied. 

“ Anither, but not a better,” said David. 

‘ * And why another that is not a better ?’ ’ 

“ It’s just a matter o’ feelin’, Veecar. Ye’ve turned 
Maister Tom out o’ doors ; I’m gangin’ wi’ him.” 

“ Indeed ! Is it my son’s wish that you should do 
so?” 

“At present he doesna’ ken aught about my inten- 
tion. I taught him to handle his first rein, I love him 
as if he were my ain, wi’ all respect to yer reverence, 
and I cannot see him thrust out into the world wi’out 
tenderin’ him my services.” 

‘ ‘ And supposing he does not accept your tender ?’ ’ 

“But he will. I need nae wages, if his allowance 
isna’ ample. My wife can manage the farm better by 
hersel’ ; and Maister Tom needs a body servant, and 
I’m the ainly man for him.” 

“You are a faithful old fool, David.” 

“ I will nae gainsay yer dictum, Veecar.” 

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“ And I will not thwart your good intentions, though 
I fear such devotion is out of date. ’ ’ 

“ Nae doot, nae doot,” said David. 

“Just as much out of date as both of us ; what is 
called the world has been made anew since we were 
born into it. But you shall go and find that out for 
yourself, on certain conditions.” 

“I’m willin’ to obey yer reverence, as far as in me 
lies. ’ ’ 

“ Master Tom sails for New York on the steamship 
Germanic, that leaves Liverpool on the 20th ; you 
understand ?’ ’ 

‘ ‘ Pairfectly. ’ ’ 

* ‘ He is provided with means. I have paid for his 
ticket, and will give you its number ; he is otherwise 
provided with funds on arrival. My cousin, who has a 
cure of souls at Brooklyn — though I know not if that 
is the proper phrase out there — has instructions con- 
cerning him in case his help be needed.” 

“ Yer kind heart couldna’ risk his discomforture in 
a strange land ; — if discomforture doesna’ apply. I’ve 
misunderstood yer reverence.” 

“You have paid more attention to the preacher on 
Sundays than I thought, David.” 

“I’ve been jest ruminating over all the geenerous 
words I’ve heard ye utter, that I mightna’ seem unap- 
preciative at such a moment as this.” 

‘ ‘ And I said you were a fool, David. ’ ’ 

“ But ye said it as if ye didna’ believe it ; and I look 
over it, whatefier. ’ ’ 

“Which is very kind of you, David. But to pro- 
ceed. You shall go to Liverpool. I will write to the 
Germanic people at once, and you shall have a berth 
thereon, and I will provide you with funds ; you shall 

147 


THE VICAR 


do your best to keep my misguided son in the right 
path. He will have introductions to good people, and 
there are many opportunities for a young man to make 
his way in a new land which do not offer in an old and 
settled one.” 

‘ ‘ A land flowin’ wi’ milk and honey, ’ ’ said David, 
“where a man is a man if he’s willin’ to toil, and the 
humblest may gather the fruit o’ the soil, as the Psalmist 
hath it.” 

“Some new psalmist, probably? An American 
singer, perhaps ? I pray God that you and my son 
may justify the forecast.” 

‘ ‘ Amen !’ ’ said David, reverently. 

“You shall give Tom to understand the circumstances 
of your presence on the Germanic ; he is not to think 
that it is my seeking or choice. ’ ’ 

“I’ve heard ye say truth’s a bright jewel, hold fast 
to it. I’ll not deceive the young Maister, and I’ll 
keep him in the right path if the Almighty gies me 
strength. ’ ’ 

“ If you travel far afield and the treasury is empty, 
before he seeks nid from my cousin or elsewhere, you 
shall be his banker ; but in that case, mind you pro- 
vide no more funds than are necessary ; no extrava- 
gance, and the purpose must be to keep the wolf from 
the door, while you, both being willing to toil, as you 
say, may gather the fruits of your labour.” 

“It’s for ye to command in a’ that, Veecar,” said 
David Macfarlane, who presently returned to the 
Homestead to pack up and say “Good-bye” to his 
wife. 

Lizzie Melford's mother blamed David for the loss 
of her daughter and the disgrace of it. When David 
explained his mission, she despised him the more. 

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That his love for a scape-grace should excel his decent 
feeling for his niece and his respect for her honest 
name, made her glad to see him taking farewell of the 
Homestead, where she had once been happy and where 
he had hitherto been respected ; and so she told him. 
She was somewhat of a feather-brain, but she was deeply 
hurt in her pride and her affections at the undoing of 
her first and only child ; and while David was whistling 
in a cheerful fashion, “There’s nae luck about the 
house, ’ ’ on the way to the railway station, Mrs. Mac- 
farlane sat crying by her kitchen fire, until Miss Wood- 
cote presently arrived to comfort and console her. 

It never for a moment occurred to David Macfarlane 
that there was a certain appropriateness in the song he 
whistled to the situation in which he was playing a 
prominent part. There had been no luck for any one 
of the persons we are most concerned about from the 
moment that Lizzie Melford had disappeared. They 
judged the girl aright, however, who refused to enter- 
tain the dark suspicion of Lizzie’s death, either by mis- 
adventure or suicide. In the smoking-room of the 
‘ ‘ Crown and Anchor’ ’ they had come to the conclu- 
sion that, whatever might be the reason for Lizzie’s 
sudden departure from Comberton-cum-Besford she 
could be relied upon to stand by the letter she had left 
behind. She was too clever and too brave to play the 
coward’s part of taking her own life. It was not un- 
usual, they agreed, for a pretty girl to be deceived ; 
but they had known cases- where a really clever 
woman had not only pulled through, but had married 
well long after, and been respected also ; besides, now 
that Luke was getting over that attack of the tramp on 
the Powyke road, he would no doubt do his duty, let 
alone acquaint Mrs. Macfarlane with the place of her 
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retreat. ‘ ‘ Doan’ t you make any mistake, ’ ’ was the 
judgment of the smoking-room in the language of its 
chairman, “Lizzie Melford is no fool; she’ve got a 
head on her shoulders and a heart in her boosum as’ 11 
able her to do what she says, earn a good livin’ , and 
of which we’ll be duly informed when the right and 
proper time do come. ’ ’ 

Susannah had met David, who, after a very cautious 
and vague preamble, had told her where he was going 
and for what ; and Susannah had sent by the uncouth 
little Scotchman a message of encouragement to Tom. 

‘ ‘ My love and all good wishes, ’ ’ she had phrased it ; 
but it was calmly given, and David volunteered that he 
would write her a letter on arrival. It was a self-deny- 
ing promise, seeing that the writing of a letter was at 
any time a tremendous undertaking for David. Mrs. 
Macfarlane, and Lizzie herself, had done all the neces- 
sary correspondence of the Homestead, and kept the 
accounts ; and David had never been celebrated for his 
learning even among the humblest of his friends. 

Mrs. Macfarlane did not weep the less for Susannah’s 
consoling words. She dared not tell her why the 
Vicar’s anger with his son was so uncompromising. 
His reverence had exacted a promise from her that his 
ward should be spared this painful knowledge. Susan- 
nah was thus left to believe that Tom’s only offence was 
that he loved her. Lady Berwick kept this tiny lamp 
of love alight, fed by words of praise for Tom, and 
whenever any symptom of a rival illumination was ap- 
parent, damped it with hints of Lord Cleeve’s prior 
attachments, his probable marriage, and his “ little 
affairs’ ’ that were notorious in town ; all diplomatic, if 
not malicious, inventions of the scheming widow, who 
remained as popular as ever at Comberton, always 

150 


THE VICAR 


“charming” in the Vicar’s estimation, with only one 
dissentient opinion, that of Lord Cleeve, who, however, 
kept it to himself. He knew, so far as a man knows 
anything that he cannot prove and has no right to act 
upon without proof, that the engagement between 
Susannah and Tom was the outcome of a plot hatched 
by the widow, though for what reason he could not 
determine. He was as much in the dark as Susannah 
touching Tom’s chief offence in the eyes of the Vicar, 
which was strange, seeing that it was known to In- 
spector Bradley and one of the Hospital nurses, and 
Luke was getting better every day. But it is no un- 
common thing for neighbours and friends to be ac- 
quainted with every detail of some burning scandal, true 
or otherwise, while those most concerned remain in 
complete ignorance of it. Comberton loved the Vicar 
and his ward, and deeply respected Lord Cleeve, and 
to a man would, if necessary, have exercised every 
possible restraint of tongue and manner to spare them 
pain and anxiety. And so Luke continued in their 
estimation to be the betrayer of the runaway, Lizzie 
Melford. 


CHAPTER XXL 


“as good as a play/' 

“ Hello, mate !” said an elderly-looking gentleman, 
in spectacles and with a slight stoop in his gait ; ‘ ‘ glad 
to see you. ’ ’ 

“ Mate !” exclaimed Tom. “ You have the advan- 
tage of me." 

“Shake hands," said the man, quietly. “I want 
you to know me. I’m Jim Renshaw ; call me Banks." 

“ Oh, how do you do, Banks, old friend?" said Tom. 
“ It is a pleasant surprise to see you. ’ ’ Then turning 
to a porter in attendance upon him, he said, ‘ ‘ Bring 
my luggage to the hotel. ’ ’ 

“Right, sir," said the porter, wheeling his truck 
towards the Great Western Hotel. Tom had just 
arrived in time for dinner. 

Jim walked by his side, and Tom, having secured 
rooms, ordered dinner. 

“ In the coffee-room, sir?" 

“ No," answered Jim ; “ Mr. Hussingtree will dine 
in his private room ; eh, Tom?” 

“Certainly," said Tom, speaking in the interest of 
Jim’s disguise ; “then we can have a quiet chat — after 
all these years. ’ ’ 

“Thank you, dear friend, thank you," said Jim, in 
the educated voice of a somewhat infirm old man. 

After dinner, when the waiter had brought them a 
bottle of old port and received instructions that they 
were not to be disturbed, Jim locked the door, and 
152 


THE VICAR 

removing his disguise sat at his ease and sipped his 
wine. 

‘ ‘ I got your telegram ; it was devilish risky, 
though. ’ ’ 

“Why?” 

“Fm utterly busted, and there’s a warrant out 
against me. ’ ’ 

‘ ‘ Good heavens !’ ’ 

‘ ‘ I may be arrested any minute. May be, mark 
you, and may be not. I’ve been in just as tight a 
place once before. 

‘ ‘ What are you going to do ?’ ’ 

“I’m booked for Montreal ; safer for me to get that 
way to America. ’ ’ 

“And your wife?” 

“ Oh, she’s gone back to Haxell. I persuaded her. 
He loves the ground she walks on, and she knows it. 
But it doesn’t prevent him having his knife into me ; 
swears he has nothing to do with the business ; I know 
better ; she doesn’ t, but she will when I quit, and I 
think she’ll keep things square.” 

“ You’re in a bigger hole than I am,” said Tom. 

“I’m a bigger scoundrel,” said Jim, with a grim 
chuckle. ‘ ‘ Y ou’ re an idiot to link your fate with mine, 
Tom.” 

“ You’re the only fellow that knows me,” said Tom, 
chuckling in his turn. 

“From your letter I gather that your father now 
knows you as well as I do.” 

“When the blow was struck you were the first 
person I thought of.” 

“ I should have been the last,” said Jim. 

‘ ‘ I wrote to you that very night, and waited for your 
answer. ’ ’ 


153 


THE VICAR 


“ I wired that Fd meet any train you named.” 

“ I named it, and looked out for you and was awfully 
disappointed. ’ ’ 

“ And yet when I spoke to you, you didn’t know 
me ; just like your beastly pride. Well, now tell us all 
about it.” 

“Oh, there’s nothing much to tell. I gave you 
particulars of my engagement to Susannah, and how it 
was brought about. ’ ’ 

“ And I burnt your letter as you requested.” 

“Well, things were going on fairly until I met that 
beast, Luke Fenton, and had to lick him within an 
inch of his life. ’ ’ 

“Yes?” 

‘ ‘ I kept it from the governor ; made out I had had 
a spill ; but it seems Fenton, thinking he was dying, 
let the cat out of the bag, and Bradley, the Inspector 
of Police, went and told the Vicar the whole bag of 
tricks ; and right upon that, — ^by God, it is wonderful 
how one thing followed up another, — right on that Lord 
Cleeve goes and proposes for Susannah. Lady Ber- 
wick happened to be about ; the Vicar let it out in her 
presence ; and then down came the bolt from the blue. 
Susannah burst out crying, said she couldn’t accept 
Lord Cleeve, flung herself into Lady Berwick’s arms, 
asked her to explain. My lady did explain, gave it 
them hot all around. Lord Cleeve sneaked ofl. Lady 
Berwick went with Susannah to her room, and made 
her pledge herself that she would not break her word. 
. . . Then the Vicar goes for me, tells me I must 
marry Lizzie Melford, vows nothing shall induce him 
to hand over Susannah and her fortune to me, declares 
he does not believe the girl loves me, as much as hints 
that I have deceived her, hoodwinked her, the deuce 
*54 


THE VICAR 


knows what ; flings the memory of my mother at me, 
browbeats me, then cries, and for half a minute, by 
Jove, I felt like crying myself ; but what the devil was 
the good ’ ’ 

“Well ?“ said Jim, coolly noting the points of Tom’s 
story and sipping his wine. 

“ I didn’t give way an inch. ‘ Very well, then,’ says 
the governor, ‘ you are no longer my son, and you will 
quit my house so soon as you can pack and decide upon 
the line of country you will take.’ And then he goes 
to his safe and begins to give me an account, as he said, 
of the money in scrip my mother had left me, and 
which he was now prepared to hand over to me. I felt 
devilish guilty, and if I hadn’ t thought how calmly you 
would have taken the thing, I believe I should have 
bolted. The scrip was done up in a packet and sealed 
with my poor mother’s seal ; it had contained fifteen 
hundred pounds of scrip, the interest of which had been 
regularly paid to me ; and this is how I had been able to 
get hold of it. I had had a duplicate key made to the 
safe, and when the poor old gov’ nor unpacked the 
bonds, or thought he was unpacking the bonds, there 
was nothing but blank paper. . . . Well, I just simply 
confessed I had had the bonds. . . . ‘You broke into 
my safe like a thief,’ he said. . . . ‘No,’ I said, ‘I 
had used his key,’ and I reminded him that the bonds 
were my own. ‘Yes, thank God for that,’ he said. 
Then he asked me how I had spent the money, and a 
lot of other things, and wanted to know if I had given 
any of it to Lizzie Melford. ... I said I had, because 
I thought that might comfort him a bit. Then he 
wanted to know where she was. I said I didn’ t know, 
nor do I, nor does anybody ; it’s the cleanest bolt I’ve 
ever heard of. . . . The end of it all was that he gave 


THE VICAR 


me twenty-four hours to clear out. ... I elected to go 
to New York, where the Vicar has a relative in the 
Church, a relative on my mother’s side ; and I prom- 
ised to turn over a new leaf. He will provide me with 
a letter of credit on New York ; he has given me two 
hundred pounds meanwhile. ... If I can honestly 
write to him that I am making myself worthy to be 
forgiven, I am to let him know ; otherwise, he never 
desires to hear from me again. ... I sail on the Ger- 
manic, for New York, on Wednesday.” 

“What about Miss Woodcote? Say Good-bye to 
her?” 

“No.” 

“Why not?” 

“ Forbidden.” 

“You left her some token ?” 

‘ ‘ I wrote her a few lines, that David Macfarlane, the 
Vicar’s farmer, undertook to deliver.” 

“The step-father of the Melford girl ?” 

“ Yes ; my second father, I may say — devoted to me 
ever since I can remember. ’ ’ 

“For which kindness you seduce his daughter?” 

“That’s an infernally unpleasant repiark, Jim.” 

‘ ‘ I feel unpleasant. ’ ’ 

“ He’s only her step-father, and cares a devilish deal 
more for me than for her or any one else. ’ ’ 

“ But you’ll make him your step-father, too, in the 
end.” 

“Shall I?” 

“Why not? She’s the right sort. Where is 
she ?’ ’ 

“I tell you it is the cleanest bolt that ever was 
made. ’ ’ 

“You don’t know where she is?” 

156 


THE VICAR 


‘‘Not the remotest idea.” 

‘ ‘ And Lady Berwick ?’ ’ 

‘ ‘ Not forbidden. It was from her I had the full, true, 
and particular account of the explosion at the Vicarage, 
just as I have related it to you ; only not half as life- 
like. You should have heard the story as she gave it ; 
it was as good as a play. You would have thought you 
heard the people speaking, and seen the expression on 
Lord Cleeve’ s face when he wanted to leave the room 
and the Vicar, poor old gov’ nor, wouldn’t let him, said 
they had no secrets, all friends together ; and by Jove, 
I strolled into the room, don’t you know, at the height 
of it, and kicked some straw that was lying about and 
asked what the damned litter was ; and it turned out 
Susannah had been gleaning, and you should have 
heard the Vicar talk of the dear hands that had gathered 
it, and the rest. I felt a good deal of an ass, and I 
think I was deuced sorry, too. ’ ’ 

‘ ‘ I dare say ; we all have our good moments ; only 
moments : couldn’t count the seconds of them into a 
full minute. And at parting, what was Lady Berwick’s 
attitude ?’ ’ 

‘ ‘ She made me promise to reform ; I swore I would. 
She undertook to keep my little corner in Susannah’s 
affections warm, desired me to write to her. ’ ’ 

“We can make those letters useful ; she’s a brick. 
I suppose it’s Cleeve she’s after, eh ?” 

‘ ‘ I dare say. ’ ’ 

“ It can’t be the Vicar?” 

“The Vicar !” said Tom, scornfully. 

‘ ‘ Seems a jolly good fellow ; soft-hearted enough for 
anything. ’ ’ 

“You think so ?” 

‘ ‘ Why, most fathers would have chucked you with- 

157 


THE VICAR 


out a cent ; some would have prosecuted you for break- 
ing into that safe ; damme, I think I would !” 

“Go on, Jim! You’d have thought of your own 
follies, and forgiven me straight. ’ ’ 

‘ ‘ But I shouldn’ t have given you a Letter of Credit 
and two hundred quid. Well, you’ve been a good deal 
of a fool, Tom ; but there’s method in your madness, 
and we’ll stand by each other ; when we’re tired, we’ll 
part. You’ll stand me fifty out of the two hundred ?” 

“ If you need it, certainly,’’ 

“ Never needed it more.’’ 

“ All right ; it’s yours.’’ • 

“You must meet me in San Francisco. I’ll write to 
you, to the Post-Office, New York, tell you where you’ll 
find me, and when.” 

‘ ‘ All right, old chap. And what are we going to do 
at San Francisco?” 

“ Make our fortunes, or make tracks further West.” 

“Victory or Westminster Abbey, eh? That’s the 
game for me. ’ ’ • 

“They call it Victory or the Tombs, in New York. 
Good name for a prison, the Tombs ; full of charac- 
ter, the Yanks, and humour. I like the Yanks, and 
so will you. Was in the Tombs once ; bailed out in 
ten minutes ; you and I are too clever to get in and stay 
there. ’ ’ 

“ You would make most fellows funk New York or 
San Francisco, Jim ; but I know you.” 

“ Do you ?” 

“I think so.” 

“Well, if am not like the virtuous Dick Turpin of 
the old transpontine drama, who boasts that he may be 
a thief but never told a lie, I have been square with you, 
Tom ; and I’m square now. You should cry quits with 
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me, and give me a wide berth ; I haven’t the strength to 
be honest, nor, I fear, the luck to be a successful fraud.” 

“ Oh, go on, Jim ! You’ve got the blues. Once 
fairly free of England, you’ll be your old self again.” 

‘ ‘ Think so ? If I had the clever brute who invented 
the submarine cablegram by the throat, I could strangle 
him.” 

‘‘Not you,” said Tom ; ‘‘your bark’s worse than 
your bite. ’ ’ 

‘‘ I hope it is ; for, damme, I do bark, don’t I? Well, 
let’s have another bottle, eh? and say au revoir. Let 
me rehabilitate Old Banks first. ’ ’ 

Jim resumed his disguise. The waiter brought 
another bottle. An hour later Old Banks, with a stoop 
in his gait and something of a stagger, chaffed a police- 
man on the threshold of the shady tavern where he was 
staying for the night. Only what he called his devil’s 
luck saved him from being run in. When a man has 
this devil’s luck his Mephistophelian friend knows how 
to bide his time. 


159 


CHAPTER XXIL 


BETWEEN THE ACTS. 

Time soon reconciles people to the inevitable. 

The ripple on the smooth surface of life at Comber- 
ton-cum-Besford resulting from the Melford scandal had 
subsided. It was no longer in doubt that Luke Fen- 
ton had gone off with Lizzie Melford. He had cer- 
tainly made inquiries as to her whereabouts. This was 
a blind, of course. Learning had taught him not only 
to brave his betters but to imitate the cunning of the 
serpent. 

It was a good thing, perhaps, they argued at the 
‘ * Crown and Anchor, ’ ’ that Lizzie Melford had no longer 
any one to mourn her misconduct. Her mother had 
died. Her step-father never cared for her. She was 
too much for him. Mrs. Macfarlane’s death and the 
death of an old man-servant at the Vicarage were the 
chief events of the village since Lizzie left it and Tom 
Hussingtree and David Macfarlane had sailed for 
America. 

Through the influence of Keziah, exercised by Lady 
Berwick, both Mrs. Macfarlane’s place and that of 
David had been filled at the Homestead by a cousin 
and his wife from Aberdeen. These changes had en- 
larged the area of gossip at the ‘ ‘ Crown and Anchor. ’ ’ 
It was said that the Vicar intended to take Macfarlane 
on again in his former position at the Vicarage, in place 
of the servant who had died, and that Macfarlane was 
expected back at Comberton any day. He had been 
heard from, and was returning alone. . . . The Vicar’s 
i6o 


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son had written but few letters during his travels. Vil- 
lage gossips had truthfully diagnosed the life of the 
Vicarage when it credited the Vicar and his ward with 
an increased serenity since Tom’s departure. Tom 
had always made a deal of fuss and bother on his 
periodical sojourns at home, and there had continually 
been ugly rumours about his drinking and gaming at a 
certain questionable house at Wulstan, some of which 
must have reached the Vicar’s ears from time to time. 
. . . The Homestead had become a far more desirable 
house of call after morning service on Sundays. Com- 
berton neighbours, on the strength of their friendship 
with the late occupiers, had been proud to make the 
acquaintance of the new farmer. There was no longer 
any bickering there. The new couple lived happily 
together. Lizzie Melford was greatly missed, of course ; 
but her place in the schools and the Church choir had 
been filled by another, an elder sister of Keziah, who 
had come from Aberdeen to live with the Macfarlane 
successors. . . . Luke Fenton had given more or less 
offence to Comberton by his efforts to rival his betters 
in learning, and nobody Was surprised at his betrayal of 
Lizzie Melford, though they were unanimously aston- 
ished and aggrieved that she should have listened to 
such a false, designing knave. Inspector Bradley had 
ceased to make inquiries concerning the girl’s where- 
abouts. Some of the villagers gave her up as dead ; 
others were convinced she was alive and doing well, 
probably in the Colonies, where in the old days several 
Comberton men and women had made fortunes. 

Soon after Tom’s departure Lord Cleeve had made 
a tour of the East, and had not returned to England for 
nearly a year. He had taken leave of the Vicarage as 
cheerfully as he knew how ; but with a very sad heart. 

II i6i 


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The Vicar had begged him to believe that Susannah 
felt more than a kindly interest in him, and that her 
pledge to his son would not hold. Lord Cleeve, how- 
ever, knew how sacredly Susannah regarded a promise 
seriously given, and Lady Berwick had taken a very 
special opportunity to explain to him that the engage- 
ment between Tom and Susannah was made with all 
the formality of a betrothal. He therefore tried to 
dismiss from his thoughts all fond records of their long 
and pleasant intercourse. ... It was only after a year 
had elapsed that, more by the invitation of Susannah 
than the Vicar, Lord Cleeve had been induced to spend 
a week at the dear old place. It had, nevertheless, been 
a week of purgatory in contemplation of the heaven he 
had missed. Susannah endeavoured to treat him as in 
the days before the harvest time when she had been 
gleaning with the children, but there was a constraint 
in her manner that shadowed Cleeve’ s visit. This had 
not prevented him from renewing it, encouraged by the 
Vicar, who urged him not to allow Susannah to grow 
accustomed to his absence. The Vicar had reason to 
believe that she entertained for him a friendship that, 
but for untoward circumstances, might have ripened 
into love ; and he hoped and believed that an oppor- 
tunity would arise for a successful renewal of Lord 
Cleeve’ s proposal. While Lord Cleeve allowed himself 
to hope that this might be so, he scrupulously regarded 
Susannah as committed to an engagement that pre- 
cluded a possible realisation of the happiness of which 
he had dreamed. 

Lady Berwick, meanwhile, maintained her hold upon 
the Vicar’s esteem and on the love of all Comberton 
and Powyke. She had been the solace of Mrs. Mac- 
farlane during the poor woman’s illness ; had kept 
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Dorcas in full working order. Her gardener had gone 
on winning prizes at the local Horticultural Show. She 
had never relaxed in one of her customary charities, but 
had discovered new opportunities of doing good. In 
town, as in the country, she continued to be as popular 
as she was wealthy. Her name was on the subscription 
lists of all the chief appeals to the benevolent. She 
took stalls at bazaars, rode a tricycle with a wheeling 
footman in attendance during the Park meets in the 
early morning, and appeared in her well-appointed 
landau in the afternoon greeted by all the “smart 
people.” Her dinners, at what she called her little 
house in Grosvenor Square, which was a mansion, 
were among the events of Society. She gave recep- 
tions that were the most popular of the merry month 
of May, bringing together celebrated artists, actors, 
painters, and authors, as well as the leaders of the 
higher world ; and she was the same bright, happy, 
genial, handsome woman, to whom everybody within 
her circle appeared to pay court. She had many ad- 
mirers who periodically approached her with offers of 
their hands and hearts and fortunes, most of their hearts 
being as small as their fortunes, their hands made with 
an almost mechanical capacity of grip and grasp. But 
Lady Berwick had no intention of bartering her freedom 
nor any of her possessions without very tangible value, 
and even in the case of Lord Cleeve she would have 
made mental reservations in regard to personal liberty. 

. .' . She held Lord Cleeve by the merest thread. It 
was strong enough, however, to take him now and 
then to Grosvenor Square, where he generally heard 
something about Tom Hussingtree. Lady Berwick 
always contrived to be in possession of some item of 
news of the “exile,” as she persistently called the 
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Vicar’s son. Lord Cleeve would not have done Tom 
an injury for the world. He was willing that the lad 
should have a fair chance ‘ ‘ to make his way, ’ ’ as Lady 
Berwick suggested. If he had broken his neck or 
drifted into gaol, or had picked up a woman of the town 
and married her, he would have been sorry for the 
Vicar’s sake. In his heart he believed Tom capable 
of anything from pitch-and-toss to speculative matri- 
mony ; and it entered his mind, in spite of himself, to 
quite expect that one of these days some untoward mis- 
fortune, physical, social, or criminal, would break the 
bondage of Susannah Woodcote. He ought to have 
known that Lady Berwick would have been the last to 
be the bearer of any intelligence that was not to Tom’s 
credit ; but Love blinds the most wide-awake. Lady 
Berwick knew the power of the mischievous little god 
well enough, and in the matter of news she was as inven- 
tive as the cleverest reporter that ever won his spurs on 
the Special Editions of an evening paper. . . . Once 
the Vicar had proposed to Lord Cleeve that Susannah 
should be made acquainted with the chief reason for 
Tom’s banishment ; but Cleeve thought such disclosures 
should not be made by him or the Vicar, the more so, 
as Inspector Bradley had hinted his belief tliat Lizzie 
Melford had gone away with Tom Hussingtree. He 
knew that she was not with Luke Fenton ; he knew 
that Luke had not found her ; he knew that on leaving 
Comberton she had gone straight to the Shrub Hill 
Junction ; and thence by the midnight train to Pad- 
dington ; all this he had proved to his entire satisfac- 
tion ; he was a man of decision, and once his intelli- 
gence had approved a theory of its own he stuck to it, 
and never wavered, as more than one innocent-convicted 
prisoner knew to his cost. 

164 


CHAPTER XXIII. 


THE FACE AT THE WINDOW. 

Once, during his wanderings in the metropolis, 
Luke Fenton had been on the girl’s track. He had 
seen her face at a window in Chancery Lane. Among 
other brass-plates in the hall of the building was one 
indicating that ‘ ‘ The School of Shorthand and Type- 
Writing” would be found on the third floor. This 
conveyed no meaning to Luke in connection with his 
search for Lizzie Melford. If it was Lizzie whom he 
saw, she was wearing a coquettish hat, and her face was 
very pale. He waited a long time to see if she came 
out. Then he went into the building and walked about 
its many floors and read its many signs and notices, 
and returned to the street to identify the storey where 
he had seen the face at the window ; but he neither saw 
the face again nor any person that looked like Lizzie 
Melford. . . . The next day, however, he thought he saw 
the face once more. It looked at him from the window 
of a four-wheeled cab. He ran for a spell, and tried to 
keep up with it. Then he hailed a hansom, and drove 
after it, as he thought, Luke said, the four-wheeler had 
“Midland Railway” painted on it, and his cabby at 
once suggested that it might be going to St. Pancras, 
the very reason why it would be rather going from than 
to St. Pancras ; but cabby thought he might as well 
drive to St. Pancras as anywhere else. The four- 
wheeler had luggage on the top, a new trunk and a 
bundle ; Luke believed the young woman had a baby 
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in her arms. Cabby made a longer journey of it than 
was necessary, and when Luke paid him all he asked, 
which absorbed the last shilling but one that he had in 
his pocket, he found that the express to Liverpool had 
just gone. The chances were considerably in favour of 
Lizzie not having taken it, seeing how soon Luke had 
followed her, as he thought ; but he made no reckoning 
of time and was a good deal bewildered by the traffic, 
and cabby’s suggestion of St. Pancras had tallied with 
his fears. He found a sympathetic porter, who, seeing 
that he was troubled, was willing to give him any infor- 
mation in his power that might be useful or comfort- 
ing. 

“ A lot of passengers, I expect ?’ ’ said Luke. 

‘ ‘ Lots, ’ ’ replied the porter. 

* ‘ Going to America ?’ ’ 

‘ ‘ Most of ’ em ; the Majestic sails in the morning. ’ ’ 

“ Did you notice a young woman ?” 

“Several.” 

‘ ‘ One in particular, with a baby ?’ ’ 

“ Come to think of it, there was a young woman with 
a baby. ’ ’ 

“ Pretty ?” 

“Yes, you may say pretty.” 

“ Nice spoken ?” 

“Very.” 

“Dark hair?” 

“Yes, dark hair and a hat.” 

‘ ‘ Rather a dainty kind of hat ?’ ’ 

“Just so.” 

“With a feather, — a sort of stand-up feather, 
white?” 

‘ ‘ Come to think of it, it was white, and it was a 
knowin’ style of hat. ’ ’ 


i66 


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“ Sort of girl that you couldn’t pass in the street and 
not notice ; and yet modest ?’ ’ 

“ Oh, very.” 

‘ ‘ About twenty ?’ ’ 

“Just about.” 

“With an infant?” 

“ In arms ; it cried, and she nuss’d it.” 

Luke paused. He hated that baby as much as Lord 
Cleeve disliked Tom Hussingtree ; and yet he would 
not have strangled it, because Lizzie loved it. 

“ Notice any name on her luggage ?” 

* ‘ Can’ t say as I did. ’ ’ 

“ It was addressed?” 

“ Oh, yes, it was addressed, and I labelled it. Come 
to think, it was a hodd sort of name. ’ ’ 

‘ ‘ Not Melford, of course ; she’ d use some other 
name.” 

“No, it worn’ t Melford. Come to think, it had a 
hess, or even two, in it. ’ ’ 

‘ ‘ Hussingtree ?’ ’ said Luke, quickly, a fluttering of 
hope in his mind that Tom had married her and she 
was going to join her husband. 

“ Hussing-what?” 

‘ ‘ Hussingtree ?’ ’ said Luke, his heart beating. 

“ Come to think, I believe that was the name.” 

“Young, dark hair, pretty, nice-spoken, dainty hat, 
a stand-up feather in it, a baby, and trunk marked for 
the Majestic, you said?” 

“Yes, it was ; and there was a label on it, ‘ Wanted,’ 
which they puts on when it don’t go into the hold, but 
is wanted in the cabin or state-room, as they calls it.” 

“Thank you,” said Luke ; and he divided with him 
his remaining shilling. 

And the following is Luke’s last letter to Inspector 
167 


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Bradley; it is dated from Shoreditch and written on 
poor paper in faint ink, but the writer had gripped his 
pen firmly and had taken pains. It is the letter of a 
naturally clever but self-taught man, reminiscent of the 
Primrose League, the Salvation Army, and the Com- 
berton Night School. 

‘ ‘ Good-bye, Bradley. The Lord keep you. I know 
you don’t believe much in the Lord. But you will one 
day. Mind, it isn’t too late. Thank you for being 
kind to me. Kind as you know how. You’re a po- 
liceman at heart, of course : it’s your business. Take 
up your Cross, it’s a better game than the truncheon. 
If things don’t mend with me, or even if they do. I’m 
for the Army ; the Cross and the sword. Both for 
England, home, and duty. When one has nothing left 
to live for, how can one die better than in the cause of 
Old England, her Empire, her honour, and her flag ? 
If I had my way. I’d turn every Salvationist Army 
into British troops. You say Our Redeemer’s teaching 
was different ; but His Father, the Almighty God, the 
God of Isaac, Abraham, and Jacob, He had a military 
policy ; He smote the enemy hip and thigh, from Dan 
even unto Beersheba. I’ve prayed, and in my dreams 
I’ve seen the sword as King Arthur saw it in the great 
lake, the handle next my hand. Lizzie Melford is now, 

I trust and believe, Mrs. Hussingtree ; God bless and 
protect her, wherever she is ; and whatever has hap- 
pened to her, for good or ill, — I pray God it be good. 
But whatever it is, I have said Good-bye to her. For- 
ever now she will only be to me a memory. Sound the 
loud timbrel o’er Eg5^pt’s dark sea ! Did you ever 
hear of Redan Massey or David who slew Goliath ? I 
make no doubt you’ll think me a bit mad. Dare say 
you are right. We may not meet again, but with the 
1 68 


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words of the All-Conqueror on my lips and a Martini 
at my shoulder, you’ll hear of me where the fight is 
thickest and the need of valour strong. Good- 
bye. 

“Your grateful Christian soldier and fellow Comber- 
tonian, 

“ Luke Fenton.” 

“Mad as a hatter, my lord !” was Bradley’s com- 
ment, Lord Cleeve having read the letter. 

‘ ‘ Poor fellow !’ ’ said his lordship. ‘ ‘ Evidently means 
to enlist. I would like to assist him. Find him out. 
Scotland Yard will help you ; I will write to the Chief 
myself. It might be possible to lend him a hand with 
the commander of the regiment, whatever branch of 
the Service he may join.” 

‘ ‘ All right, my lord, ’ ’ said Bradley. ‘ ‘ He won’ t be 
the first that’s joined through a woman.” 

“Nor the last,” said his lordship. “What do you 
make out of his statement in regard to the girl having 
become the wife of Mr. Hussingtree ?’ ’ 

“Only the man’s fancy. It was his constant cry 
that if Mr. Hussingtree would make an honest woman 
of her, why there, he didn’t mind. Tom Hussingtree 
is just as likely to have married her as your lordship, 
begging your lordship’s pardon.” 

‘ ‘ The comparison is far-fetched, Bradley ; but let 
that pass. You think young Hussingtree is not at all 
likely to have fulfilled Fenton’s hopes ?” 

“Not he, my lord; that’s not his game, I assure 
you. ' ’ 

“What has become of the girl ?” 

“Ah! There you have me,” said Bradley; “a 
needle in a bottle of hay. If I was a thief or a mur- 
169 


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derer flyin’ from Justice, Fd make for London ; never 
was such a hidin’ -place, and Scotland Yard ain’t as 
clever as you’ d think. I was only the other day 
countin’ up about twenty London murders within the 
last ten years, two a year, that they’ve never had even 
a clue of, let alone a conviction. ’ ’ 

You go very straight for a conviction, the moment 
you have a clue, Bradley, don’t you?” 

‘ ‘ I believe you, my lord. Give me a clue, I always 
say, and I’ll give you a prisoner ; give me a prisoner, 
and I’ll give you a conviction.” 

“Yes,” said Lord Cleeve, thoughtfully. “It is a 
matter of professional pride with you, Bradley, I sup- 
pose ?’ ’ 

“That’s it, my lord; we all has our little weak- 
nesses. ’ ’ 

‘ ‘ Some of us our great weaknesses, Bradley. It is 
fitting that pride should occasionally have a fall.” 

“No doubt,” said Bradley, laughing. “You always 
has your little joke, my lord. But coming back to 
Luke Fenton, I’ll do what your lordship wishes. Edu- 
cation and Lizzie Melford’s turned his head. As Squire 
Dobbins, of the Comberton Bench, often says, ‘ Human 
nature’s a queer thing, — a queer thing, and the petti- 
coat’s the red rag of the Universe. ’ ” 

“ You would do better to study your Official Book 
of Instructions than listen to the addled-headed aphor- 
isms of Squire Dobbins,” said Lord Cleeve. 

“ If your lordship pleases,” said Bradley, in the lan- 
guage of the Assize Courts. 

“ Good day, Bradley.” 

“Good day, my lord,” said Bradley, considerably 
abashed. “ I wonder what Old Dobbins has done. A 
queer chap. Lord Cleeve ; you never know when he’s 
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joking or when he ain’t ; sarcastic, they says at .the 
‘Crown and Anchor,’ I calls it disappointed Love — that’s 
what I calls it. But we shall see ! Lady Berwick’ 11 
tame him, once he runs harness with her ; and a damned 
good job, too, I say !” 


CHAPTER XXIV. 

LUKE FENTON IS “DOWN ON HIS LUCK.” 

At about the time when Bradley was telling Lord 
Cleeve the story of this last letter from Fenton, Luke 
and Lizzie Melford passed one another in the street 
without recognition. They were both on errands of 
business, that were destined to have important conse- 
quences for both of them. Lizzie, neatly dressed, but 
with an extra bit of colour in the decoration of her 
fashionable hat, was on her way to St. Martin’s Cham- 
bers ; and Luke was strolling leisurely, his hands in his 
pockets, towards that well-known recruiting station by 
the new wing of the National Gallery. He looked 
neither to the right nor to the left ; neither did Lizzie 
Melford ; what might have been the result, if they had, 
it is not worth while even to guess, much less predict. 
Many a woman has married from motives of pity ; and 
Luke was quite worthy of her consideration. Though 
his boots were down at heel and he looked hungry, 
there was no expression of despondency in his bony 
face and deep-set eyes. His gait and manner might be 
said to be defiant rather than depressed. He glanced 
at the various placards that adorned the railing of the 
Portrait Gallery with the air of a patron. Having in- 
spected the dress and figures of the various regiments 
that headed the terms of enlistment, he looked round 
and examined the faces of the recruiting sergeants. 

“ Morning,” said the stout subaltern of a marching 
regiment. 

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“Morning,” said Luke. 

“A bit down on yer luck ?’ ’ 

‘ ‘ A bit, ’ ’ said Luke. 

‘ ‘ Boots want mending. ’ ’ 

“They do.” 

‘ ‘ Clothes thin for the time o’ year. ’ ’ 

“They are,” said Luke. 

“ Had no breakfast ?” 

“ Not a mouthful.” 

“What’s yer trade ?” 

“Jack of many, master of none.” 

“Want to ’list, eh, my lad?” 

“Yes.” 

‘ ‘ Come along of me, ’ ’ said the sergeant, laying his 
hand on Luke’s shoulder. “I’ll take care of yer.” 

“Stop a bit,” said Luke. “ I want to leave the 
country. ’ ’ 

‘ ‘ Oh !’ ’ said the sergeant. ' ‘ What have yer done ?’ ’ 
“ How, — what have I done?” 

‘ ‘ That makes you want to leave the country ?’ ’ 

“It’s what I want to do that makes me desire to 
leave England.” 

“Don’t understand,” said the sergeant. “If the 
coppers are after you, why. I’m not so sure that I shall 
be any use to yer. ’ ’ 

‘ ‘ The coppers ?’ ’ 

‘ ‘ The bobbies. ’ ’ 

“ Oh, the police,” said Luke, smiling. “ No, unless 
Inspector Bradley’s been inquiring for me.” 

“ Inspector Bradley?” 

‘ ‘ A friend of mine down in the country. ’ ’ 

“ Oh, a friend ?” 

‘ ‘ Why ? What are you driving at ?’ ’ 

“I’ll be straight with yer, mate. I want to know if 
*73 


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you’ve committed a crime that makes yer want to quit 
the country ?’ ’ 

“Only the crime of being alive and worthless. I 
want to quit England to fight her enemies, and help the 
Queen and die for the flag, if need be.” 

‘ * A lunatic, ’ ’ remarked the sergeant to himself ; 
“ but I’ve ’listed many a worse that did good service.” 
“What’s that?” asked Luke. 

“ I was only about ter say that mine’s the regiment 
for you. If you’re smart, know anything of drill and 
are willing to work, I dessay you may soon join the 
colours. Come alonger me, and we’ll talk about it.” 

And as Luke ‘ ‘ corned- alonger’ ’ the sergeant, Lizzie 
Melford knocked at a door on the third floor of St. 
Martin’s Chambers, close by. 




174 


CHAPTER XXV. 


LIZZIE MELFORD MAKES HER REAPPEARANCE. 

“Come in,” said Mr. Max Nettleship ; and there 
entered his writing- room in St. Martin’s Chambers, 
near the Garrick Theatre, the very person whom we 
know as Lizzie Melford. She now called herself Mary 
Bradford. Luke Fenton, by the way, was quite right 
when he thought he saw her face at the window in 
Chancery Lane ; equally wrong when he fancied he 
detected it at a cab window ; still further off the track 
when he gave her a seat in the Liverpool express. 
During his wanderings in search of her, he had been 
nearer to her more than once than on the day when he 
saw her in Chancery Lane ; once in particular, he had 
passed her, almost touching her in the street ; but 
London is a wilderness, a refuge, a sanctuary, and the 
traditional bottle of hay containing the lost needle. 

“lam out to everybody,” said Mr. Nettleship, 
“except to a lady from the Type-Writing Schools in 
Chancery Lane.” 

“ I come from there,” said the girl. 

“ Indeed ! Pray take a seat.” 

She sat in the chair indicated, her back to the win- 
dow, so that Mr. Nettleship had her in full view. 

“ Mrs. Waring sent you to me?” 

“ Yes, sir.” 

“You write shorthand, you transcribe on a type- 
writer ?’ ’ 

“Yes, sir.’ 

“ How long did it take you to learn ?” 

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“A long time.” 

“You are not a Londoner?” 

“No, sir.” 

“ From the country?” 

“Yes, sir.” 

‘ ‘ Perhaps you learned shorthand at school ? They 
teach everything now, except the useful arts of domes- 
ticity.” 

“Yes,” said the girl. 

‘ ‘ Excuse me for asking so many questions ; but you 
see I ” 

“ Mrs. Waring said you did not care to have a very 
rapid note taken ?’ ’ 

“ No. I am not accustomed to dictate ; but Fve had 
a touch of writer’s cramp.” 

“Oh, I’m sorry.” 

“Yes, it is a complaint that naturally excites sym- 
pathy. Have you been accustomed to write from 
dictation ?’ ’ 

“ Not very much ; but I can do it.” 

“I’ve no doubt. You see, I asked Mrs. Waring to 
send me a woman of mature age, a spinster, you know, 
a lady who might come here at all hours without ex- 
citing remark, and — well, I hardly know how to explain 
myself. ’ ’ 

“Mrs. Waring said I should find you kind and 
considerate, and ” 

“Mrs. Waring and I are old friends. She would 
be sure to give me a good character. The truth is I 
hate to have a man about me. I tried a male short- 
hand-writer. He made me feel self-conscious. I write 
novels, and sometimes there’s a love-making scene, 
and I thought that a spinster, a spectacled elderly 
lady, you know, wouldn’t mind. I had an old aunt 
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once to whom I used to confide my troubles in that 
way, and I thought if Mrs. Waring sent me a lady of 
that calibre, you know, a sort of old aunt, why, I 
should get along swimmingly, as they say ; but ’ ’ 

' You think I am too young. I don’t believe I am 
so young as you may imagine ; and I have been accus- 
tomed to look at my work merely as work ; I have 
made it my study, and it is my living.” 

“Yes, I understand that, my dear young lady. You 
see, I am a bachelor, old enough probably to be your 
father ; but still young enough for my friends to put a 
wrong construction upon your presence here — at all 
hours, mind you, in a bachelor’s chambers. It is true 
I have a housekeeper, and she has a woman who comes 
in once a week to help her clean up and so on. You 
will excuse me for saying so, it is not in the way of 
compliment or otherwise, but you are very attractive 
in appearance, altogether too nice, I fear. Yes, really 
too nice for me to have here at my elbow, alone, you 
know ; there is n6 telling what might be said ; and I 
would not have you, or any other young lady, scandal- 
ised for the world. ’ ’ 

“I’m very sorry,” she said. “I have brought a 
type-writing machine ; the porter carried it up to the 
door ; it is outside. ’ ’ 

“There you are again, you see. There’s the porter. 
He knows everybody who comes and goes, and is as 
great a gossip as the concierge of a Paris flat ; and, 
really, I ” 

‘ ‘ Do you think it matters what gossips say, if your 
conduct is correct ?’ ’ 

‘ ‘ If your life is above it, no, ’ ’ said the novelist. 
“ But to be free from suspicion, one ought to give no 
cause for talk, eh, don’t you think so?” 

177 


12 


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“ There must be hundreds of girls employed in offices 
as shorthand clerks and type-writers,’* she said. 

“ In offices, yes ; but this is not an office, my dear 
child. It is a bachelor’s chamber,” he said. He 
went to the door, and brought the box into the room. 
“ Is this the type- writing machine?” 

“Yes, sir.” 

‘ ‘ Did you find it difficult to learn the use of it ?’ ’ 

”No, sir,” said the girl, rising to unlock the case. 
She took out the machine and placed it on a small empty 
table. 

“A wonderful machine, the type- writer, ” said Net- 
tleship, reflectively ; ‘ ‘ that and the sewing-machine 
are the two most useful inventions of our time. Don’ t 
you think so ? I tried to work a type-writer myself. 
Couldn’t manage it. Yet I have struggled success- 
fully with a bicycle. Do you ride ?’ ’ 

“Yes, sir. I live at Barnet, and ride in every day.” 

” Do you, now? Not afraid of the traffic?” 

“I don’t like it; and on wet days I am afraid 
of it.” 

‘ ‘ I should think so, indeed. Do you know I wish 
you were twenty years older. ’ ’ 

” Yes ?” she said, and smiled for the first time. 

* ‘ I do, because I think we should get along, you 
know. I’m rather impatient sometimes ; impatient 
with myself. Not, you know, with any one else. You 
see, the truth is in these days one often has to write 
what other people like, not what one likes oneself. 
Do you read novels?” 

“Sometimes, sir.” 

‘ ‘ What kind of a novel do you like, now ?’ ’ 

* ‘ ‘ David Copperfield. ’ ’ ’ 

“Yes? What else?” 


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‘‘‘The Romance of War/ 

“Dear me! Yes?’’ 

“ ‘Monte Cristo’.’’ 

“Ah, there’s a book for you I There’s a romance. 
You liked ‘Monte Cristo’ ?’’ 

“Very much.’’ 

“Then you are in favour of the romantic story, 
eh?’’ 

“ Yes, sir.’' 

“Not the problem thing, as they call it. Not the 
gruel and gutter novel. Not the analytical, psycho- 
logical, surgical essay, masquerading in chapters, the 
whited sepulchre of fiction ?’ ’ 

The girl made no reply. She turned a puzzled face 
to her inquirer. 

“Not the sordid, morbidly realistic panorama of 
disease and death that some people call Ibsenish, and 
others Zolaesque.’’ 

“ Oh, no. But I have read ‘ Ghosts,’ and ‘ Nana.’ ” 

“The deuce you have !’’ 

“An American young lady at Mrs. Waring’ s lent me 
‘ Nana ;’ another lent me ‘ Ghosts.’ ” 

“Really! Well?’’ 

“ I did not like them.” 

“ Why ? I don’t mean ethically or in regard to the 
question of taste, but artistically, as literature, let us 
say ?’ ’ 

‘ ‘ I thought they were too much like real life. ’ ’ 

“Yes ?” 

“Too sad, too dreadful, too true !” 

‘ ‘ Truth is a great matter in fiction ; only masters 
should deal with it. They are masters, both Ibsen and 
Zola. But their imitators ! Terrible, you know, terri- 
ble. And you thought both the novel and the tragedy 
179 


THE VICAR 


too true ? By the way, do you live with your parents, 
may I ask ?’ ’ 

“ Pray excuse me, sir,” said the girl, rising from her 
seat ; ‘ ‘ if you really do not think I am suitable for the 
work you have to give, I had better return to Mrs. 
Waring and say so.” 

“ Your rebuke is just, my dear young lady,” Nettle- 
ship replied. ‘ ‘ Pray be seated. I have asked you too 
many questions.” 

, The girl sat down, and looked at him with an air of 
resignation. 

“I bore you,” he said; “I am sorry. But, you 
see, you interest me. I would like you to come here 
and see whether we get on ; but I might have to kill 
several persons if you were annoyed. That would be 
a bother, eh ? Don’ t you see what I mean ?’ ’ 

“ No, sir, I do not. You may rely upon it, no one 
will annoy me. I have learnt how to accept rudeness, 
and even insult, in this great, civilised city ; a girl has 
to learn that early, whether she lives in a city or a 
village. ’ ’ 

“That’s true, too true. Man is a monster. He 
tries to disguise it, but he’s a monster. I’m but a 
rogue myself, a rogue in a mask ; yet, like my old 
friend Lord Beaconsfield, I am on the side of the 
angels. The long and the short of it, if you care to 
come and run the risk of my having to kill half a dozen 
young Philistines, why, so be it, come — and good luck 
to you and to both of us !’ ’ 

‘ ‘ I am not afraid, sir, of what any one may say of 
me, and I think, after all, women are treated very much 
as they deserve ; as you respect yourself, so you are 
respected. ’ ’ 

“Very well; take off your cloak. We will begin. 
i8o 


THE VICAR 


First I will tell my housekeeper that you will take your 
luncheon with her. You don’t mind that, eh?” 

” I did not think to take any luncheon here.” 

” But you won’t mind, eh? Will you?” 

‘ ‘ Thank you, no ; I shall be very glad. ’ ’ 

“That’s all right,” said Mr. Nettleship, disappear- 
ing ; and returning almost the next moment with a 
buxom, rosy-looking woman, somewhere between forty 
and fifty, a large apron round her large waist, her grey 
hair gathered beneath a white cap, and with a face as 
genial as sunshine in June. 

‘ ‘ This is the young lady. Miss — I beg your pardon, 
what name ?’ ’ 

“ Mary Bradford,” said the girl. 

“ I will tell you all about her later,” said Nettleship ; 
‘ ‘ meanwhile, she will take luncheon and tea with you, 
if you please, Mrs. Lightfoot. ’ ’ 

“ Oh, certainly, sir,” said Mrs. Lightfoot (so named, 
Nettleship used to say, that everybody might make 
their little joke about being born with a heavy foot). 

‘ ‘ Luncheon at one, tea at four ; them’ s my hours ; if 
they suits the young lady, she’s most welcome. I’m 
sure. ’ ’ 

“I’m sure she is,” said Nettleship. 

Mrs. Lightfoot curtseyed herself out ; and Nettle- 
ship, taking up a speaking-tube by his desk and having 
whistled for attention, said, “I’m out to everybody 
until one o’clock.” And then turning to the young 
person, he said, “ You’ve brought a notebook ?” 

“ Yes, sir,” the girl replied, producing it and seating 
herself facing the speaker. 

Nettleship’ s friends said he employed a ghost. He 
was so utterly unlike his books that it was difficult to 
associate him with their authorship. He was a bright, 

i8i 


THE VICAR 


chatty, frivolous, light-hearted, optimistic, florid, blue- 
eyed bachelor of fifty. He looked forty ; thought 
forty ; rode wheel and horse with the go of forty ; went 
into Society ; always seemed to have lots of time on his 
hands ; dressed everlastingly in the same fashion, cut- 
away black coat, white waistcoat, white neckerchief, 
tall hat, wore an eye-glass, grey trousers, and tanned 
gloves ; spoke quickly and in short sentences, had a 
habit of saying ‘ ‘ you know, ” in a deferential way ; 
was always good for a guinea subscription to anything ; 
was believed to have a snug little property on the 
Thames, and was the popular author of several strong 
novels, one powerful play, and half-a-dozen shilling 
shockers ; revelled in melodramatic stories in which 
Vice fought Virtue hard and in the end got defeated 
in a big, strong, tragic way. There was plenty of in- 
genuity in his work, and occasional flashes of comedy ; 
the result, however, was gloomy with the gloom which 
the steady reader of romance delights in, the gloom of 
Poe and Wells, of Haggard and the old London Journal 
in the famous days of Smith. A really great novelist 
was Smith, of “The Will and the Way” and “ Woman 
and her Master ’ at least so think the men of our day 
who were boys in his ; but this has nothing to do with 
Mr. Nettleship. Smith was a Bohemian, constructed 
his fiction under alcoholic influence, like Lord Byron 
preferred gin, wrote while the “devil” waited for 
“ copy but was a real good fellow at bottom, all men 
say who knew him. Nettleship wrote when the spirit 
moved him. He made it move him at least once a day 
for several hours ; and was a real hard worker. It is 
the real hard worker who finds time for riding, biking, 
dining, and going to the theatres. Some of the more 
steady and serious men of the Parthenon Club, of 
182 


THE VICAR 


which Nettleship was a popular member, thought him a 
good deal of a buck, not to say a masher ; but Nettle- 
ship was a pattern of virtue, masquerading now and 
then in conversation as a wolf. Some men do that ; 
“rickety-rackety” boys in talk who never racketed, 
lady-killers who never, under any circumstances, 
“wink the other eye.” Nettleship liked to make him- 
self companionable and equal to the company he met, 
would play their game ; in conversation was wicked 
or cynical or devilish to command ; and went home, 
to St. Martin’s Chambers, with an innocent smile, and 
jotted down an idea or two that had come to him 
during his wicked conversational masquerade, some- 
thing in the way of dialogue, the talk that might suit 
a villain, the boasting that might suit a coward, and so 
on. 

“Quite ready, eh? Very well,” said Mr. Nettle- 
ship, ‘ ‘ suppose I make a memorandum or two by way 
of finishing a chapter. Difficult to start right away. 
It was Dickens who likened his habit of beginning to 
that of the carrier pigeon. A kind of trial trip round 
and round, as if seeking the proper route ; then, pres- 
ently, going off to its destination. Oh, by the way, I 
did not mean you to write that down. Doesn’t matter. 
Thank you. Now.” 

“Yes, sir,” said the girl. 

‘ ‘ ‘ He had made his dispositions with devilish skil- 
fulness. It was a dark night. He was armed with his 
usual weapons : a sand-bag and a dagger. The sand- 
bag was in reality a club. It was heavy and supple. 
It made no noise. It was easily carried. You could 
double it up. When you struck a blow with it, there 
was only a dead, sullen thud. It made no rattle. The 
only rattle was in the throat of the victim. A blow 

183 


THE VICAR 


under the ear stunned, if it did not kill. Which it did, 
depended upon the amount of force put into the blow. 
Jaggers was a master in the use of the sand-bag. He 
made it with skill ; he wielded it with genius. It was 
only a strong canvas bag loaded with sand, a stiff, 
roller-looking thing. Jaggers, in his low vulgar way, 
called it a “bloomin’ roley-poley puddin’.” It was a 
murderous weapon. If the Thugs of India had known 
of it, they might have preferred it to their no less 
deadly scarf.’ Now wait one moment, please.” 

“ Yes, sir.” 

“ Have you ever read ‘ Edwin Drood’ ? ” 

“ No, sir.” 

“Well, do. There’s a scarf in that. The choir- 
master used to wear it. There is no doubt he strangled 
Edwin Drood with it. Mr. Fildes told me so. Dickens 
himself told his son Charley that Edwin was strangled 
with it. Now, I have often wondered whether Dickens 
got that idea from Thuggee. I think he did. He had 
something of the quality of Shakespeare. He put 
Jonathan Wild and Jack Sheppard and the Mint busi- 
ness of Ainsworth through his intellectual crucible, and 
gave us ‘ Oliver Twist.’ Shakespeare was more direct 
in his annexations ; but he made the stale old fables 
immortal in his new dresses, such dresses ! But there, 
we must get on. Do I speak too quickly for you ?’ ’ 

“A little.” 

‘ ‘ I will go more slowly. Do you know, I think we 
shall get along capitally. It is the first time I have not 
felt terribly embarrassed when I have been trying to 
dictate. ’ ’ 

‘ ‘ I am very glad, ’ ’ she said. 

“ So am I. Now, let me see, where were we? Oh, 
I know.” 


184 


THE VICAR 


He walked about the room ; looked at the ceiling, 
then at his boots, then at Lizzie ; then stroked his 
cheek, as Sir Henry Irving does in Louis the Eleventh, 
but not viciously ; yet there was something grim in the 
action ; it was as if he might be trying to put himself 
in the position of his villain, getting beneath the skin 
of the character, as he called it, being the very man, 
don’t you know. 

“ Quite ready ?” 

“ Yes, sir.” 

“ ril try and be more deliberate.” 

” Thank you, sir.” 

‘ ‘ ‘ Jiggers stood within the shadow of a doorway in 
State Street. Chicago was abed ; all but a stray pe- 
destrian homeward-bound, and a villain bent on his 
prey. Ralph Norton had just left a convivial party of 
the Press Club, and was walking to the Grand Pacific 
Hotel. He knew little of the ways of Chicago. It 
was cold as well as dark. The electric lamps made the 
shadows thick. One of them had gone out. It was 
in this particular shadow that Jaggers was hiding. He 
knew that Norton carried his purse in his breast-pocket. 
They call it a pocket-book in America. In the Green- 
back days there was little else besides paper money ; so 
they carried it in their pocket-books. Jaggers had seen 
Norton use his pocket-book ; and Norton was rich, the 
proprietor of a London trade paper. He was on a tour 
through America. Just at the moment that Norton 
walked out of the electric light into its black shadow 
Jaggers darted out ; and at the same time a third per- 
son appeared on the scene . — To be continued in our 
next.' " 

Mr. Nettleship gave a sigh of relief, and leaning back 
in his chair, looked at the shorthand-writer. She was 
185 


THE VICAR 


dotting her hieroglyphic i’s and crossing her hiero- 
glyphic t’s. 

‘ ‘ I make a point of finishing each week with a bang, 
you know.” 

She began to take a fresh note. 

“No, thank you ; I have concluded that chapter. I 
had written the other part before you came. This, you 
see, is a serial story, goes on from week to week. There 
is a certain amount of art in bridging over the interest 
from one week to another. Some of my contemporary 
novelists, especially the mild ones, ‘ stylists and sich^ 
as one may say, who write what they call studies, psy- 
chological investigations, analytical pieces of character- 
isation, excursions into sexual philosophy and hygienic 
science, and that kind of thing, you know — well, they 
are inclined to look down upon the ‘ To-be-continued- 
in-our-next’ romance. They can’ t write it themselves ; 
so they look down upon it, object to that form of fic- 
tion altogether. Dickens and Thackeray wrote serial 
stories. Anthony Trollope wrote serial stories. Wilkie 
Collins, Charles Reade, and Louis Stevenson wrote 
serial stories. Besant, Black, Braddon, and Ouida 
write them. For my own part, I believe the necessity 
of making what dramatists call a ‘ curtain’ every week 
helps the author to concentrate his plot and give it 
nerve. What do you think, my dear young lady ?’ ’ 

“ I think you are quite right, Mr. Nettleship.” 

“Good girl, good girl,” said Mr. Nettleship, rub- 
bing his hands, his genial blue eyes lighting up with a 
smile that passed over his cheery face like a gleam of 
sunshine. “ We shall get on famously, I’m sure of it. 
I think it must be near upon luncheon-time. ’ ’ 

He looked at his watch. As he did so, there was a 
knock at the door. 


i86 


THE VICAR 


“Come in,’’ he said; and Mrs. Lightfoot came in 
accordingly. 

She had laid her apron aside. Her ample bosom was 
covered with a white cross-over. She had put on her 
best cap and her best face. 

“If the young lady is ready,’’ she said, “the 
luncheon is also, by your leave, sir. ’ ’ 

‘ ‘ Thank you, Mrs. Lightfoot, and the young lady is 
at liberty. ’ ’ 

“Thank you very much,’’ said Lizzie, rising from 
her seat. 

‘ ‘ This way, my dear, ’ ’ said Mrs. Lightfoot, opening 
the door and holding it while Lizzie passed out, with a 
“Thank you, you are very kind, Mrs. Lightfoot.” 

Mr. Nettleship stood at “Attention,” like a drill- 
sergeant, bowed to the door as it was shut, and said to 
himself, ‘ ‘ A very sweet young creature, very !’ ’ 

Then, drawing on his gloves, he took his hat from a 
mahogany cupboard which contained other hats, be- 
sides overcoats and sticks. He put his hat jauntily 
upon his head, looked at as much of himself as he 
could see in the mirror over the mantel that was en- 
cumbered with cards of invitation to public and private 
dinners, Art and social functions, and Private Views of 
pictures. Then, turning to the door, he remarked 
with unusual seriousness, “Yes, indeed ; a very sweet 
girl — - To be continued in our next^ ’ ’ — and sallied forth 
to the famous Parthenon Club. 


187 


CHAPTER XXVI. 


DAVID MACFARLANE TELLS THE STORY OF HIS OWN 
AND TOM HUSSINGTREE’S ADVENTURES. 

It was Autumn again at the Vicarage. But Winter 
was hovering near. The corn had been stacked, the 
stubbles shot over ; the trees were shedding their last 
leaves. 

A bright fire crackled and sparkled on the hearth of 
the Vicar’s own room. The sun had gone down ; the 
fire burnt all the more cheerfully, as if it might be try- 
ing to console and comfort the two old men who sat 
within its glowing influence. 

“This is a sad meeting, Macfarlane,” said the Vicar, 
contemplating the shrivelled hard little Scotchman, 
whose hair was as grizzled as the stubbly beard he had 
grown during his travels. 

“Aye, ’tis,” Macfarlane replied. 

* ‘ Little else but sorrow on both sides. ’ ’ 

“ Nothing else.” 

“You had the letter from your sister Keziah ?“ 

“The black-edged one, yes. I ken that auld John, 
who served ye sae weel, is dead. Also my wife. It 
might have been worse. She died in the fear o’ God, 
and made a will in favour o’ Lizzie. Weel, I canna’ 
complain. I’ve often listened to ye i’ the kirk, an’ 
ye’ve said we’ve nae right to think too much aboot the 
dead ; oor beezness lies wi’ the livin’ . Is yonder puir 
runaway dead, Lizzie Melford ?’ ’ 

“I hope not. We think not ; but have found no 
trace of her.’’ 


188 


THE VICAR 


“It’s a pity. How’s she to inherit her mither’s 
little fortune, if she canna’ be found ?’ ’ 

“That we must leave to time.” 

“’Tis so, I reckon. Ah, weel, her mither’s gone 
for sure, dead and buried. God help us a’ that have 
got to gae !’ ’ 

“Amen to that,” said the Vicar. “And where do 
you think my son is ?’ ’ 

“ Nae, I canna’ tell ye. I ’a’e lost him.” 

‘ ‘ What has he to live on ?’ ’ 

“ I dinna’ ken. — There’s my account.” 

Macfarlane dragged from his breast-pocket a paper, 
which he handed to the Vicar with somewhat of a 
defiant air. 

‘ ‘ What account ?’ ’ 

‘ ‘ The money ye entrusted to me. ’ ’ 

“One hundred and twenty-four pounds,” said the 
Vicar, glancing at the document. 

“Three shillin’ s and saxpence half-penny,” said 
Macfarlane. “It’s writ down fair and straight.” 

‘ ‘ But I gave and sent you in all four hundred 
pounds ?’ ’ 

“True, Veecar ; verra true, verra true; but that’s 
where the account closed, d’ye see? Maister Tom 
kept the account himsel’ after that, if there was ony 
kept at a’ , at a’ . ” 

‘ ‘ I told you to deal with the money yourself as it 
might be needed, and in emergency.” 

‘ ‘ Aye ; but when I got as far as ye see wi’ the 
account, Maister Tom concluded to be his ain 
clerk. ’ ’ 

“I told you that Master Tom would earn what 
money he required ; but if he should fail or was in 
trouble, you were to help him.” 

i$9 


THE VICAR 


‘ ‘ Aye, ye telt me ; but ane night when I was asleep, 
he altered a’ that.” 

“ Altered it?” 

“Aye. He concluded that it would be better for 
me to earn what money I required, an’ he’d help us 
baith oot wi’ the cash in emergency. ’ ’ 

‘ ‘ Where was this ?’ ’ 

“ At Boston, the hame o’ the Pilgrim Fathers. That 
place was soon too hot for him. — He’d picked up what 
the de’il’s children ca’ a pal, whateffer !” 

‘ ‘ Who was that ?’ ’ 

“ Why, if ye may trust to what’s written on a man’s 
face, he was just a great villain. Ye might speer the 
de’il lookin’ oot o’ his een. He’d come frae the West, 
he said, and he and Maister Tom met at an hotel in 
New York, four weeks after we landed.” 

“Yes.” 

“ Weel, it was the verra day after he’d picked up 
his pal that Maister Tom discharged me from yer Rev- 
erence’s service, and the pal became everythin’ to 
Maister Tom, and I was just naebody.” 

“ And who was this person?” 

“He was a veera bad lot, Veecar ; they ca’d him 
Konkey Jim.” 

“ Konkey Jim?” repeated the Veecar, inquiringly. 

“That’s what they ca’d him. He had a nose more 
prominent than usual, an’ he was mighty fond o’ 
whaskey. ’ ’ 

“Well?” 

“We went frae New York to Boston. Then back to 
New York. I dinna’ ken how ’twas done ; but Maister 
Tom earned money there, and Konkey Jim was fu’ o’ 
gowd an’ more than efier fu’ o’ whaskey. ’ ’ 

‘ ‘ Had he no other name, this man, no surname ?’ 

190 


THE VICAR 


‘ ‘ Not that I effer kenned, ’ ’ said Macfarlane. ‘ ‘ Mais- 
ter Tom ca’d him Jim, and had a mighty faith in him.’* 

‘ ‘ Very well, ’ ’ said the Vicar. ‘ ‘ Get on, Macfarlane, 
get on.” 

“ I will, yer Reverence. There was trouble in New 
York ; after sunshine, storm, as they say, and we made 
for ’Frisco.” 

” ’Frisco?” repeated the Vicar, inquiringly. 

“San Francisco it’s ca’d by the children i’ the 
schules ; but when they grow up to drink and swear 
and gamble like their fathers, they just ca’ it ’Frisco. 
Eh, sic’ a awfu’ place, Veecar ! There ought to be to 
each livin’ creature twa policemen and a minister o’ the 
Gospel, to luke after his body and soul.” 

The Vicar walked about the room, impatiently. 

“ Before we started, Maister Tom and Konkey Jim 
found they hadna’ suffeecient funds for a’ three ; but I 
wouldna’ be left behind. It breaks my heart to think 
o’ it. I had to sell the gowd chain o’ my grandfather’s 
watch, that had hung to the fobs o’ the family these 
hunner years, to get mysel’ a ticket. I’ll nae see the 
auld seals again.” 

“Well, what took place in San Francisco?” 

“Tuke place! Eh, but it’s a pairfect pandemoni- 
cum, an’ the whaskey’s verra bad.” 

‘ ‘ But my son, my son ?’ ’ exclaimed the Vicar. 

“Ay, Veecar, I’d willingly spare ye, — I did my duty 
by him. I wrastled wi’ him, but bad company is just 
a roarin’ lion seekin’ whom it may devour.” 

“Tell me the truth.” 

“ Weel, the truth, if it must be telled, the truth is it 
wor’ a’ drinkin’ an’ gamblin’ an’ swearin’ ; an’ Konkey 
Jim, he just oot-Heroded Herod, an’ ’ll come to his 
end wi’ delirium, or worse. At first he was nae unlike 
191 


THE VICAR 


a gentleman born and breed, dressed weel an’ spoke 
weel ; but the way in which he went doon an’ doon, it 
was awfu’ !” 

Still the Vicar paced the room. Macfarlane had 
never had such an innings. He spoke now as one 
having authority. Hitherto, in the Vicar’s service he 
had been something of a nonentity. He had had in the 
past two women to obey, his wife and step-daughter ; 
one master-in-chief, the Vicar ; and one little master, 
Tom. Now he stood alone, a travelled man, full of in- 
formation, and he was not going to let the opportunity 
pass without making the most of his position, — a trav- 
eller, and with a message. 

‘ ‘ Where did all this happen ?’ ’ 

“ Happened i’ the saloons, as they ca’ them, — places 
a’ smoke an’ noise an’ glare an’ glitter, where miners 
and Chinamen an’ ither childer o’ the de’il congregate, 
to kill time an’ one anither.” 

“ Chinamen ?” 

“Weel, perhaps not i’ the same place ; but ’Frisco’s 
on the borders o’ China, an’ it’s deefficult to keep them 
oot. It was i’ the gamblin’ saloon that Maister Tom and 
Konkey Jim most frequented where Maister Tom got 
into a scrimmage, whateffer.’’ 

“Yes?’’ said the Vicar, sitting down by the fire. 

‘ ‘ One o’ the gamblers had the audaceety to say 
Maister Tom had cheated at poker.’’ 

“Poker!’’ 

“Aye, that’s what they ca’ the game, an’ a gude 
name to ca’ it by ; it’s a game for the de’il’s ain fireside. 
An’ Maister Tom jumped up an’ went for Mr. Keno 
Plug, who they ca’d the Boss, a man a’ skin an’ bone 
an’ whaskey.’’ 

“Where did he go for him ?’’ asked the Vicar, look- 
192 


THE VICAR 


ing into the fire, hardly caring to hear more, beginning 
now to desire a postponement of the end, which pointed 
to a catastrophe. The Vicar had not studied human 
nature sufficiently to understand the vanity of the story- 
teller, the delight of the globe-trotter in an exaltation 
of the knowledge of the traveller, 

‘ ‘ Where did he gae for him !’ ’ exclaimed Macfarlane, 
warming to his theme. “ Between the eyes ! Mr. Keno 
Plug fell doon among the cocktails an’ the whaskey, an’ 
I believe ye might ’a’e heard his bones and the glass 
* rattle half-way down the street. Eh, but Maister Tom 
can hit oot !” 

As the Vicar rose from his chair, Macfarlane imitated 
the letting out of a strong man’s fist as he went on de- 
scribing the fight, which he seemed to see again, looking 
right through the Vicar at the opposite wall. 

“ He’s a powerfu’ young feller, a braw young man. 
The minute he jumped up, he squared himself to the 
foe and hit oot ; he hadna’ been to Oxford for naethin’ , 
Maister Tom. Ye’d nae have failed yersel’, beggin’ yer 
pardon, to admire him at that moment, if ye could ha’ e 
seen him stand up for the honner o’ Bonnie Scotland, — - 
I mean Auld England, whateffer.” 

Macfarlane was squaring at the wall on the other side 
of the Vicar, and poor Mr. Hussingtree began to think 
that his old servant had been fortifying himself at the 
“ Crown and Anchor” or in the housekeeper’s pantry. 

‘ ‘ Spare further comment, Macfarlane, ’ ’ he said, 

‘ ‘ and tell me what happened and the end of it. ’ ’ 

“ Weel, in a minute there wor mair knives and pis- 
tols aboot than there wor’ hands i’ the saloon. As 
for mysel’, I retreated to a place o’ safety aboot twa 
miles off, whateffer, for I had nae arms of offence, 
knives or pistols, and I was affeared. The next 
13 *93 


THE VICAR 


mornln* I learned that a man was killed, and they said 
it was Maister Tom 

‘ ‘ Dead I * ’ exclaimed the Vicar. 

“Nae, nae ; they laid the blame on Maister Tom. 

The Vicar gave a sigh of relief. 

“But it was nae true ; he*d used nefier a pistol nor 
neffer a knife, and the man that was shot, it was just a 
mere accident. Ye see, Veecar, when they have a scrim- 
mage o' that kind, they just shoot free and easy, and 
whoop and blaze away, and the glass flies, and the noise 
would do justice to the battle o' Bannockburn, if one had 
seen it, — the bluster and squirm and the banging with- 
got out the blood and destruction, — though the man that 
killed was just riddled wi’ bullets and spent bottles. ’ ’ 

“Very well ; I am listening,” said the Vicar. 

“Ye’re verra gude, Veecar. I’m tellin’ ye a matter 
o’ months in just a few words ; I’ll nae detain yer Rev- 
erence long. They said the sheriff was after Maister 
Tom, the Boss swearin’ as he had killed the man that 
was riddled wi’ bullets and bottles ; so he and Konkey 
Jim made for New York. They disguised themsels ; I 
wouldna’ kenned who they were if they hadna’ telt 
me. Maister Tom ordered me to remain and meander 
aboot, so that it might be thought they were still i’ the 
place ; and I misled the Boss i’ this respect, and so en- 
abled Maister Tom and his friend to get clear away 
wi’out mishap ; but I was left, alas, wi’ ainly a matter 
o’ a few dollars, to travel as best I could. I had nae 
mair siller whateffer than enough to get to the first place 
the train stopped at — a matter o’ sixty miles ; they 
reckon a hunner miles oot yonder nae mair than five i’ 
Comberton.” 

“I’m listening,” said the Vicar, in response to 
Macfarlane’s pause for a new departure in his reve- 
194 


THE VICAR 

lations that concerned himself more than Master 
Tom. 

“ Ye are verra gude, Veecar. I thank ye, but I feel 
ye’d just like to ken the truth, and naethin’ but the 
truth, whateffer !” 

“What did you do next?” the Vicar asked, the 
knowledge that Tom had escaped from the police at 
San Francisco inclining him to be more tolerant towards 
Macfarlane and his story, and even interested, now that 
it seemed as if he was about to follow the tragedy of it 
with a glimpse of comedy, for Macfarlane’ s face had 
lighted up with a smile. 

“ Hoo’ did I get to New York wi’oot money? 
Weel, Veecar, I was just verra canny. Travellers are 
put to awfu’ curious shifts. I tuke a tacket to the first 
place the train stopped at ; and there I foun’ a man that 
fed the stoves. He was a Scotchman, and belonged to 
the ancient and noble Order o’ Odd-Fellows ; and while 
the engine was takkin’ in watter, I just made my friend 
that fu’ o’ whaskey he was nae fit to be trusted wi’ the 
fires. Then I offered mysel’ to do his work.” 

“ That was very wrong, Macfarlane,’’ said the Vicar. 

“ Nae sae wrang as ye may think. He was a coun- 
tryman, an’ bein’ an Odd- Fellow, my brither ; an’ 
winna a body be gettin’ help frae his relations ? Be- 
sides, ye ken, it was for a gude purpose. It was o’ the 
last importance I should get me back to New York. 
I’d gi’en ye my word I wouldna’ leave Maister Tom. 
And besides, my brither got work on a train, in anither 
car that was travellin’ westward ; an’ we pairted the 
best o’ gude friends.’’ 

“And at New York?’’ said the Vicar, thus passing 
over Macfarlane’ s further adventures by the way. 

“Again at New York, Maister Tom an’ his drunken 
195 


THE VICAR 


friend had a tearin’ time o’ it, gettin’ siller I dinna ken 
hoo’, an’ spendin’ it the de’il kens where. When the 
worst came to the worst, and Konkey Jim had de- 
scended to what they ca’ bunco-steerin’ , and was put 
into the Tombs for a month ” 

Macfarlane looked at the Vicar, with a twinkle in his 
eyes, waiting to be cross-examined on “bunco-steer- 
ing” and “ the Tombs but the Vicar making no out- 
ward sign of curiosity, he continued his narrative. 

“ As a last resource, Maister Tom went to a friend o’ 
the Reverend John Desborough, your Reverence’s 
cousin, and telt him hoo’ he’d repented o’ his wacked- 
ness, and wished to return home like the Prodigal Son ; 
and ’ ’ 

“ It may be so,” said the Vicar, more to himself than 
in response to Macfarlane ; “it may be so. ’ ’ 

“It may, and God send it be!” said Macfarlane. 

‘ ‘ But r m verra dootfu’ , Veecar. He came on board the 
ship they ca’ d the Paris wi’ me, but when we upped wi’ 
the anchor and gat oot to sea, he was nae aboord ; he’ d 
just shipped me alone, a’ by mysel’ ; whether it was 
done wilfu’, I canna’ say, or whether he was left by 
accident. And noo ye’ve got the entire story, Veecar, 
frae the beginnin’ ; and I beg pardon if I hae hurt your 
Reverence’s feelings, or said tae much or tae little.” 

“Thank you for what you have done, Macfarlane, 
and I am sure it was all done for the best and in some 
respects was right, though I except your treatment of 
your fellow-countryman and brother.” 

“ But the gude purpose, Veecar, the gude purpose,” 
said Macfarlane, rather glorying in his cuteness than 
protesting against the questioning of his honesty. 

“Very well, Macfarlane. I suppose it might be 
ascribed to what they call strategy in warfare. ’ ’ 

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THE VICAR 


“Just so, Veecar; and I thank ye for giving it a 
name whateffer. ’ ’ 

“Good-night, Macfarlane. You will find that ar- 
rangements have been made for your return. ’ ’ 

‘ ‘ The hoosekeeper was gude enough to tell me ; 
and I humbly thank yer Reverence, and ye’ll find me 
gratefu’.” 

“ That’s all right, Macfarlane. Good-night.” 

Macfarlane withdrew from the Vicar’s presence to 
the housekeeper’s room, where Lord Cleeve’s coach- 
man was being entertained, having during the afternoon 
driven his lordship from Cleeve for a short stay at the 
Vicarage. 


197 


CHAPTER XXVII. 


“still harping on my daughter.” 

A KNOCK at the door, followed by the entrance of 
Lord Cleeve. 

‘ ‘ I am very glad to see you, Cleeve, ’ ’ said the Vicar. 

“ I am not disturbing you?” 

“You never disturb me.” 

“You are kind to say so.” 

“And just now you are more particularly welcome. 
I am troubled.” 

“ I am sorry to hear it,” said Cleeve. 

“ It is not a new trouble ; but now and then it seems 
so. A chat with you will put it to rest, for a time at 
least. ’ ’ 

‘ ‘ Macfarlane has returned ?’ ’ 

“Yes.” 

‘ ‘ Is the trouble in that direction ?’ ^ 

“ Yes ; but it is nothing that will mend by grieving 
over. ’ ’ 

“ I hope there is no cause for grief, — no fresh cause, 
I mean.” 

‘ ‘ Let us sit down and talk about something else ; 
something that concerns neither of us and never can, 
eh?” 

The Vicar shook Cleeve by the hand and took a seat 
near the table. Lord Cleeve sat upon a couch by the 
fire. 

“Well, what shall it be, old friend; the ethics of 
finance, the depreciation of silver, pin-cushions, fiddle 
198 


THE VICAR 


varnish, the immorality of art, the Rontgen rays, young 
love, or what ?’ ’ 

The Vicar smiled as he followed Cleeve’s suggested 
subjects for conversation until he spoke of young love, 
and then, assuming a serious expression of countenance, 
he said, ‘ ‘ Love is not a thing to jest about, Cleeve ; 
whether for good or evil, it is a serious matter. ’ ’ 

“You are a splendid fellow, Hussingtree ! Your 
heart is as young as your head is old. Well, young 
love shall be sacred ; we’ 11 leave out young love 
altogether. ’ ’ 

“No, Cleeve, dear friend, we will not leave it out ; 
young love is the subject we will talk about.” 

‘ ‘ Good. Y ou shall begin. I will listen. ’ ’ 

“Then I beg you will listen attentively. You re- 
member the sad day when I told Susannah of your 
generous offer ?’ ’ 

‘ ‘ I am never likely to forget it, ’ ’ said Cleeve, in a 
softened tone of voice and turning his face to the fire. 

“ I don’t think I need ask you if your feelings have 
changed ?’ ’ 

“ No ; but from that day I have ceased to think of 
Miss Woodcote with the idea that she might ever be 
my wife. We have all kept our secret. Lady Berwick 
has been true to her word, I think, in that respect. ’ ’ 

‘ ‘ She is a charming woman, Cleeve, and I have 
never known her to be otherwise than perfectly honest 
and reliable, socially, as a friend, and in any matter of 
parochial or other business in which we have been 
associated. ’ ’ 

“Her silence and your son’s absence have made it 
less difficult than I ever dared to hope for me to renew 
my visits to the Vicarage.” 

‘ ‘ It would have been a disaster indeed to have been 
199 


THE VICAR 


cut off from our neighbourly intercourse ; it was hard 
enough to bear your absence for six months ; it is 
delightful to have you back again ; my sermons have 
improved every Sunday since your return. ’ ’ 

‘ ‘ They have become shorter, ’ ’ said Cleeve. 

“Ribald!” said the Vicar, smiling. “They have 
become more hopeful ; less spiritual ; more material ; 
I have preached the gospel of friendship and self-denial 
with increased faith.” 

“If that man Ingersoll, whom they call ‘Godless 
Bob’ in America, was orthodox, or had any creed at 
all that the Church could recognise, he might have 
preached your sermon of Sunday last in your own 
pulpit. ’ ’ 

“ In what way ? How do you mean, Cleeve ? Don’ t 
jest. ’ ’ 

‘ ‘ His gospel is the gospel of friendship, honesty, 
well-ordered homes, family ties, patriotism, true 
love ’ ’ 

‘ ‘ Stop there, Cleeve. It is of true love that I wish 
to speak, and you only seem to refer to it for the pur- 
pose of evading discussion.” 

“You said let us talk of anything and everything in 
which neither of us had any personal interest, some 
abstract theme, and ’ ’ 

“ Let us be serious, Cleeve. You say you have 
ceased to think of Susannah with any idea that she 
may ever become your wife ?’ ’ 

“Yes,” said his lordship, once more turning to the 
fire ; for, talk as he would, his thoughts were continu- 
ally dwelling upon Susannah, and if he had in honour 
ceased to do more than dream of the possibility of Fate 
some day being kind to him, she was, nevertheless, 
just as dear to him as ever. 


200 


THE VICAR 


* ‘ Then cease to think of her as pledged to another. * * 
“ It is my turn to say ‘ don’t jest/ ” Cleeve replied, 
looking up anxiously. 

“ I do not jest, Cleeve ; nor would I wilfully deceive 
myself. My son can never marry Susannah Wood- 
cote.” 

She is solemnly engaged to him. It was almost a 
formal betrothal. Miss Woodcote is one who would 
keep her word if it broke her heart. I trust I am not 
a vain man ; but I do firmly believe that her engage- 
ment to Tom is a sore trouble to her.” 

” It is a bitter humiliation to all of us.” 

‘ ‘ But she will stand by it ; and, however foolish it 
may be on her part, I must respect her loyalty. ’ ’ 

‘ ‘ Why, my dear Cleeve, it would be an outrage on 
love, a travesty on loyalty. She has made no vow to 
Heaven. To be true to your word argues that your 
word has been given in an honourable engagement, for 
a worthy purpose, a holy cause.” 

‘ ‘ If my own interests were not so bound up in an 
excuse for her to break her vow, I could support your 

special pleading ; but ” 

“ Susannah does not know why Tom left England, 
and with what a stain upon his honour, what a blemish 
on his humanity. The mystery that surrounds his exile 
tells in his favour ; it gives a touch of romance to it ; 
she thinks it is all for her, and that she has done some- 
thing towards giving to mere liking the sentiment of 
love. I could dispel all that in a moment. I often 
think it was my duty to do so long since ; I have been 
largely influenced against such a course by Lady Ber- 
wick, and not a little by yourself, Cleeve. ’ ’ 

‘ ‘ I would not, nor would you, Hussingtree, take 
unfair advantage of a man in his absence.” 

201 


THE VICAR 


“Unfair advantage of an undutiful, wicked, dishon- 
est, and fornicating son ! ’ ’ 

“Your only son,” said Cleeve, interrupting the 
Vicar in his declamatory denunciation. ‘ ‘ And your 
own teaching is one of forgiveness, self-denial, charity. * ’ 
“And justice ! Don’t forget justice, Cleeve,” said 
the Vicar. “But you rebuke me righteously. God 
knows best. He has deemed it right to afflict me ; it 
may be for my good, for the good of us all ; we must 
not complain. But even as a clergyman I must say, 
Cleeve, that it is hard to bear ; and when I think of 
that poor girl of Melford’s, I have to confess that the 
ways of Divine Providence are indeed mysterious. 
Poor child ! so pretty as she was, so intelligent, so 
kindly ; and to think that my son, of all other men in 
the world, should have brought about her ruin ! My 
God, Cleeve, I find it hard to preach forgiveness of 
such sins ! If we only knew what had become of her ; 
if we could only have helped her ; if his father could 
have done something to atone for such a villain ! God 
forgive me, I sometimes think I should never have 
taken holy orders !’ ’ 

The Vicar mopped his face with his handkerchief, 
and paced the room, Cleeve following him with sympa- 
thetic support of friendly words, remonstrances against 
his taking the affair so much to heart, and little compli- 
ments on his manliness and the honesty of his priestly 
work. 

‘ ‘ It will pass, Hussingtree, it will pass, ’ ’ said Cleeve. 

‘ ‘ Don’ t be so disturbed, dear friend. Lean your back 
against your philosophy and faith, your gospel of duty 
and obedience. As you say, God knows what is best 
for us ; leave it to Him, and let us hope for the best. 
I am not so keen a believer in Divine interposition as 
202 


THE VICAR 


you are ; I have made no vows as you have ; and 
yet I can’t help thinking that it is not destined for so 
good a fellow as you to be unduly tried and brought 
low with sorrow and affliction. Be of good cheer. 
You have health, — aye, and wealth, — a great respon- 
sibility, but you use it as a trust ; and you have Susan- 
nah. Be of good heart ; you have much to be thankful 
for.” 

‘ ‘ God forgive me !’ ’ said the Vicar ; ‘ ‘ and not the 
least of His blessings is the gift of such a friendship as 
yours. I am ungrateful, but repentant ; shake hands. ’ ’ 
The two friends grasped hands ; at which sentimental 
moment the dressing-bell was rung, and Cleeve re- 
marked, ‘ ‘ I did not know it was so late. ’ ’ 

” Nor I,” said the Vicar, looking at his watch. 

” Half-past six,” said Cleeve, looking at his. 

It was difflcult to get away from the painful subject 
they had been discussing ; but the dressing-bell helped 
them. 

‘‘By the way,” said the Vicar, ‘‘we shall have a 
lonely dinner. Susannah is at Wulstan. An ‘ after- 
noon’ and a little supper at the Deanery. We did not 
expect you. All the greater the pleasure of your visit. 
I need not say that. It is a long drive ; but she will be 
back by nine, at the latest. ’ ’ 

‘ ‘ Rather a cold night, ’ ’ said Cleeve. 

‘ ‘ It is ; but Susannah knows how to take care of her- 
self, and she has recently bought a fur cloak that might 
keep a body warm in the Arctic regions. ’ ’ 

‘‘I’m glad,” said Cleeve. And all the time he was 
dressing, he pictured her being wrapped up by her 
Deanery friends and sitting for an hour afterwards in a 
corner of the old family carriage, her eyes challenging 
the stars for brightness. He was terribly in love, poor 
203 


THE VICAR 


Lord Cleeve ; and it was only by repressing all sem- 
blance or show of it that he was enabled now and then 
to be in the society of the woman he worshipped, and 
for whom no sacrifice tending to her happiness would 
be too great for him to undertake. 


204 


CHAPTER XXVIIL 


AFTER A LONELY DINNER. 

It was indeed a lonely dinner, as the Vicar said it 
would be. Susannah’s vacant chair was a depressing 
influence. More so, even, was the self-repression of 
the two men. Having only one subject they cared to 
talk about, they had both made up their minds not to 
mention it. And yet all other subjects fell flat. The 
telegraphic challenge of the hysterical young Emperor 
of Germany and the swift acceptance of it, at any other 
time would have aroused their enthusiasm. While the 
Vicar preached Peace, he knew that in the present con- 
dition of human and Imperial life there must be inter- 
national and racial conflicts, and he was patriotic with 
all the instincts of the Church Militant. Lord Cleeve 
talked of the difflculties of the British farmer, and the 
onerous position of the landlord. But all the time he 
was wondering why the Vicar should have raised the 
question of Susannah’s position in regard to Tom and 
himself with so much earnestness. They were both 
glad when the cheese, and the decanter of port that 
always came on with it at the Vicarage, were removed. 
The Vicar shortened the repast still further by ordering 
coffee in the library. Here they found Lord Cleeve’ s 
special box of cigars and the. Vicar’s pipe ready to 
their hands, and a tiny spirit-lamp, in the shape of a 
classic tripod, burning with a delicate flame that was 
reflected in the silver tray of liqueurs and glasses. If 
the Vicar lived a simple life, he had due regard to the 
205 


THE VICAR 


habits and customs of his guests ; and, after all, a little 
old brandy with your coffee helps digestion and clears 
the brain. 

The Vicar quietly filled his pipe, which would have 
been a churchwarden of the old school of smokers if it 
had not been a mere imitation made in briarwood with 
a fine meerschaum bowl. 

‘ ‘ What should we do without it ?’ ’ he said, as he 
lighted a spill at the classic lamp. 

‘ ‘ Without what ?’ ’ Cleeve asked, as he pinched the 
end of his cigar with a gold cutter that hung at his 
watch-chain. 

‘ ‘ Without what ! Without tobacco, my friend ; the 
soothing weed, the inspirer of pleasant dreams, the 
antidote to sorrow, the comfort of the weary, the 
refreshment of the strong.” 

He blew a cloud, and watched it disperse around 
the tall lamp that shed a soft illumination over the 
centre of the room, leaving the rest in shadow, except 
where the candle sconces on the wall made their own 
splashes of light upon the sombre bookcase and relics 
ecclesiastical. 

‘ ‘ And yet there are clergymen who condemn it as 
hotly as if James had only just fired off his puny pop- 
gun,” said Cleeve, stretching his legs towards the 
fire. 

‘ ‘ There are clergymen who ought to have been 
engaged in any other kind of calling in the Master’s 
vineyard except in the cure of souls, Cleeve,” the 
Vicar replied. 

In another few minutes they would have been deep 
in theology, but for the timely interposition of a visitor, 
the announcement of whose name seeme<i to revive 
Cleeve’ s spirits. 


206 


THE VICAR 


“Superintendent Bradley,” he said. “Dogberry, 
without his unconscious humour.” 

“ It is rather late to be calling,” remarked the Vicar. 
“ So I said to him,” replied the servant ; “he said 
he knew it was not early. ’ ’ 

“A regular chop-logic,” Cleeve remarked to the 
Vicar ; ‘ ‘ don’ t send him away. ’ ’ 

“ I said you had only just left the dining-room, and 
I did not think you would like to be disturbed ; and 
that Lord Cleeve was with you. ’ ’ 

“ Yes ?” the Vicar replied, seeing that Cleeve rather 
encouraged the servant to talk, an unusual thing with 
Cleeve. ‘ ‘ And what did he say then, Rogers ?’ ’ 

‘ ‘ He said he had only just left his office, and that the 

world was not governed by Lord Cleeve ; and I ” 

“Yes, that will do,” said the Vicar. “Let him 
come in.” 

“In a dogmatic mood,” said Cleeve. “The mood 
suggests business. He has good news, or bad, for 
you, or has caught some poor mendicant red-handed 
at his nefarious work, and wants to know at what time 
you’ll take the case in the morning ; I’ll join you on 
the bench, with your permission, and we’ll let the beg- 
gar off and fine ourselves a sovereign in his interest.” 
“You don’t like Bradley?” 

“Not much.” 

‘ ‘ He means well. ’ ’ 

“So does the clergyman who denounces wine and 
cigars, and gets drunk with the singing of hymns and 
denouncing sins he has no mind to ; there are poor 
mortals to whom Nature has denied the capacity to 
either smoke or drink. ’ ’ 

“Cleeve!” said the Vicar, his pipe in his hand, 

‘ ‘ what is the matter ? One would think you had an 
207 


THE VICAR 


abnormal appetite for wine and cigars, and you are 
one of the most abstemious men I know. ’ ’ 

‘ ‘ Superintendent Bradley, ’ ’ said the servant, usher- 
ing in the officer, who strode forward cap in hand, 
military gait, truculent manner, self-conscious smile, 
and all. 

“Good-evening, your reverence,” he said, raising 
his forefinger to his forehead, not with humility, but 
in an official manner, as a subordinate officer might to 
his superior ; ‘ ‘ good-evening, your lordship. ’ ’ 

“ Well, Bradley, and what has gone wrong?” 

* ‘ Or right ?’ ’ remarked Lord Cleeve. 

Bradley looked from one to the other, inquiringly. 

“You don’t usually call at this hour,” said the Vicar, 
encouragingly. 

“No, your reverence ; I generally manage to trans- 
act my business in a morning. But the fact is, your 
reverence and your lordship. Sergeant Thomas saw 
two persons hanging around the Vicarage grounds, 
one of them muffled up about the face, the other a hang- 
dog sort of cove, the Sergeant said. Now, I was com- 
ing over to watch them, when, calling at the “ Angel,” 
Mrs. Blake, who wanted to go to Lady Berwick’s Dor- 
cas meeting, couldn’t go because her stableman was 
drunk and there was nobody to drive her ; in that way 
I was detained, or I should have been here before. I 
was always a bit of a ladies’ man, your reverence and 
your lordship. And virtue is its own reward, as they 
say. On the way home I took the foot-path across 
the Vicarage meadows, and there I caught sight of the 
two men, who slunk off behind the trees in the direction 
of Powyke.” 

‘ ‘ Powyke ?’ ’ remarked Lord Cleeve. ‘ ‘ Then it is 
Lady Berwick who should be warned. ’ ’ 

208 


THE VICAR 


“No,” said Bradley ; “ they were only queering the 
scent. Powyke’s not the cover they’re making for.” 

“ And what does all this point to ?” asked the Vicar. 

“ Besides your being a ladies’ man,” added Cleeve. 

‘ ‘ His lordship will have his little joke, ’ ’ Bradley 
replied, with a pitying and protesting smile ; ‘ ‘ never 
know’ d his lordship when he wouldn’ t. What I wanted 
to know is if you have more money in the house than 
usual. Everybody knows your big safe and most peo- 
ple think you keep a good deal in it.” 

“You should tell them how strong it is, Bradley.” 

‘ ‘ There ain’ t any safe that can’ t be opened these 
days, ’ ’ said Bradley ; ‘ ‘ and the Sergeant says it is 
known that the Vicar has received a large sum of 
money to-day that would have been better in the 
bank. ’ ’ 

“ Indeed !” said the Vicar. “That is strange. It is 
quite true that I have received to-day in notes the pro- 
ceeds of a little property at Wulstan, which my lawyer 
might have paid into the bank to my credit, but he pre- 
ferred to bring the notes to me. It was after banking 
hours, he said, when he received them. Moreover, he 
is very punctilious as to accounts ; knew I had a good 
safe, he said — and so I have, no doubt. ’ ’ 

‘ ‘ I have recently had one by the same maker placed 
in the wall of my library ; not as a protection against 
burglars, Bradley, but against fire. ’ ’ 

‘ ‘ I know you’ ve some wonderful curiosities at Cleeve 
House, your lordship,” Bradley replied, in a concilia- 
tory spirit. 

“ Bradley wants to know how much you really have 
in the safe. Vicar,” said Cleeve. 

“ Thank you, my lord,” said Bradley. “ I do not 
desire to be inquisitive, but — 

14 209 


THE VICAR 


* ‘ There is not less than a thousand pounds in the 
safe,” said the Vicar. 

“That looks bad,” said Bradley. 

‘ ‘ I think it looks good, ’ ’ said Cleeve, now standing 
with his back to the fire, and enjoying his cigar all the 
more for the turn the conversation had taken. 

“Bad and good, your lordship,” said Bradley. 

‘ ‘ The Superintendent never commits himself — if he 
can help it,” Cleeve remarked to the Vicar. 

“ I try not to,” said Bradley. “It’s good to have 
a thousand, it would be bad to be robbed of it. ’ ’ 

‘ ‘ And do you think these two fellows you have seen 
are after my money ?’ ’ asked the Vicar. 

“ It’s a case of suspicion,” Bradley replied. 

“ I really don’t think any one would enter my house 
without an invitation,” said the Vicar, rising from his 
chair. 

“ Except Lady Berwick,” said Cleeve. 

‘ ‘ I think I have the love of every person in the 
parish. ’ ’ 

“ These men may be utter strangers ; one is. I’ll be 
sworn,” said Bradley. 

‘ ‘ And the other ?’ ’ inquired the Vicar. 

“May love your money better than you,” said 
Cleeve. 

“ Very true, my lord,” said Bradley. 

“Well, I have no fear,” the Vicar replied. “But 
what do you wish me to do ?” 

“The most successful burglaries of late have been 
committed while the family have been at dinner, ’ ’ said 
Bradley. 

“This family has dined,” said Cleeve. 

‘ ‘ If they had not been watched yonder, these two 
men might have taken advantage of the dinner hour ; 

210 


THE VICAR 

they may have a better chance on another day,” said 
Bradley. 

‘ ‘ But it would take hours to break into that safe, 
surely?” remarked Cleeve. 

‘ ‘ Might, and might not. There have been such 
things as getting duplicate keys, or servants being in 
the job ; of course, that’s out of the question here. 
Are these shutters always securely fastened ? It is the 
one night that they happen to be left undone, by acci- 
dent or neglect, that the crib is cracked, so to speak.” 

“Always, I believe,” said the Vicar. “ I know that 
when we go in to dinner they are open ; that when we 
return they are closed and barred. Rogers fastens up, 
indeed, as soon as it is dusk.” 

“That’s all right, your reverence. Give them an 
extra overhauling to-night. In the meantime, see to 
your other fastenings ; keep lights burning — nothing 
like a light to intimidate burglars ; let the dogs 
loose. ’ ’ 

‘ ‘ Particularly old Sally, ’ ’ said Cleeve, laughing just 
a trifle sadly as he thought of the Vicar’s reply to his 
confession of love for Susannah, ‘ ‘ old Sally knows all 
about it already, I dare say.” 

“I’m sorry your lordship should think the affair a 
subject for laughter.” 

“I’m sorry that you are sorry, Bradley,” Cleeve re- 
plied. 

“ It’s a little out of our beat, but we’ll keep an eye 
upon the roads to and from the Vicarage. ’ ’ 

“ Who’s we, Bradley ?” 

“ Well, me and Sergeant Thomas.” 

‘ ‘ Thank you, ’ ’ said Cleeve, willing to soften the as- 
perities of the debate. Bradley could not help showing 
that he was angry. 


211 


THE VICAR 


“The truth is, your reverence, doors and shutters 
and windows are left too much to servants ; the heads 
of households ought now and then to look to their own 
fastenings.” And he cast a defiant glance at Lord 
Cleeve. 

“Very well, Bradley,” said the Vicar. “We’ll begin 
at once ; look at these shutters. ’ ’ 

Bradley followed him to the window. The shutters 
were barred and bolted. A space was left at the top 
where on fine nights you could see the stars and some- 
times the moon shining. There was a new moon on 
this occasion. 

‘ ‘ The new moon through glass !’ ’ said Cleeve. 
“Why didn’t you tell the Vicar there was a new 
moon, so that we might have gone to the door, looked 
at it, and turned our money ?’ ’ 

“I didn’t know you were superstitious, my lord,” 
said Bradley. 

“A lovely moon,” said the Vicar. “One can 
hardly imagine anything but good luck under such an 
ensign ; but the world is full of trouble, and we must 
make the best of it, Bradley. ’ ’ 

‘ ‘ Shall we load the guns. Vicar ?’ ’ asked Cleeve. 

“His lordship seems a bit cynical, as they say,” 
Bradley remarked, as he proceeded to examine the 
shutters. 

“Not cynical, Bradley; adventurous. I shouldn’t 
mind having a shot at a burglar — only small shot, 
Bradley. ’ ’ 

“ Heaven forbid !” said the Vicar. “ Well, Bradley, 
what do you make of the shutters ?’ ’ 

“The fastenings are all right,” he replied ; “ but a 
good hand would be through those bits of board in five 
minutes.” 


212 


THE VICAR 

“We must have armour-plated houses, Hussingtree,“ 
said Cleeve. 

‘ ‘ My armour-plating is the affection of my flock, ’ * 
the Vicar replied. ‘ ‘ I could rest happy in my bed 
with every door and window open. ’ ’ ^ 

‘ ‘ Not caring who caught cold ?’ ’ said Cleeve. 

‘ ‘ I mean unfastened, you quibbler. ’ ’ 

“ His lordship is so amusing,” said Bradley. 

“Well, since we have begun, Bradley, shall we 
examine the rest of our defences ?’ * 

‘ ‘ If you please, sir. ’ ’ 

“ Come along, then. I shall know more of locks, 
bolts, and bars in ten minutes than I ever knew in my 
life before.” 

“Good-night, my lord,” said Bradley, with his 
customary military salute. 


213 


CHAPTER XXIX. 


THE FASCINATING PRIVILEGES OF WIDOWHOOD. 

“There is a touch of vanity in the best of us/^ 
said Lord Cleeve to himself, as he lighted a fresh cigar 
and sat down on the comfortable old settle by the fire. 
“The dear old Vicar thinks he is so respected that even 
a burglar, if such a creature ever entered Comberton- 
cum-Besford, would spare him. I think it was Tom who 
advised him to have that safe built into his library wall. 
A curious corollary to his views of open house, by the 
way, that iron safe ; but we are full of contradictions. 
... I wonder what my peculiar vanity is ? A good- 
natured friend, I dare say, would tell me of a dozen 
vanities, and I suppose I should not acknowledge one 
of them.” 

The fire leaped up, as one of the logs, half-burnt, 
collapsed into the hot embers. 

“ The fire endorses that. Right you are, old log,” 
he said, and took the poker to help its amalgamation 
with the embers. The sparks flew up the chimney like 
a swarm of golden bees. 

“ Is it not a piece of vanity,” he continued, “ that I 
still cherish the belief that Susannah Woodcote likes me 
better than she likes that young ruffian, Tom ? It may 
be. But I am sure she does. Indeed, I believe she looks 
on her devotion to Tom as a tribute to my views on 
loyalty. Then, she would naturally fear that people 
should say she broke her faith with a poor young fellow 
to marry a rich man with a title. But I have more 
214 


THE VICAR 


sense than he has, am more intellectually endowed, and 
an intelligent young woman prefers a man of experience, 

one somewhat older than herself, and eh ? Well, 

wait a moment. I have been explaining to the fire, and 
to my friend, the poker, here, that I have no vanity ; 
and proved it by proclaiming in words, and by inference, 
that I entertain half-a-score of vain conceits.” 

He laid down the poker, with which he had been 
punctuating his remarks in quiet strokes at the wood 
and coal. 

“You lie there, my friend,” he said, “and listen. 
Number One : I think Susannah loves me ; although 
she has directly shown that she does not. Number 
Two : I think she is faithful to Tom Hussingtree out 
of respect to my views, — that is, to remain worthy in 
my sight. Number Three : that I have more brain- 
power generally than my rival. Number Four : that I 
am greatly valued by many for my wealth and title. 
Number Five : that even my extra years are an advan- 
tage in the eyes of a lovely girl. There, that will do ; 
I find I am just as modest as other people.” 

He turned his head towards the window to listen. 
The sound of distant wheels broke in upon the silence. 
There was a passing reflection of lights above the win- 
dow shutters, right in front of the new moon. 

“ Eh? What ! Yes, it must be Susannah !” 

He looked at his watch, and then at the clock on 
the mantel-shelf. 

“Half-past nine,” he said. “Yes, it must be 
Susannah.” 

He laid aside his cigar, pulled his waistcoat straight, 
stood up, and glanced at himself in the mirror where 
the Vicar on that memorable day had called Susannah’s 
attention to her own blushing and agitated face. Then 
215 


THE VICAR 


the carriage stopped. Presently he heard Lady Ber- 
wick’s voice in the passage from the hall. 

“ Lady Berwick !” he exclaimed. “Well, upon my 
life, that woman has the proverbial impudence of the 
devil himself. What can she want at this time of 
night? And when we are expecting Miss Woodcote, 
too ! If she comes in here, I’ll pretend to be asleep ; 
not finding the Vicar, she’ll go, perhaps, unless ” 

‘ ‘ Don’ t take the trouble to announce me, ’ ’ he heard 
her say at the door, as he sank down upon the settle 
and pulled his handkerchief over his face. 

“ In here?” she asked. 

“Beg pardon; yes, my lady,” said the servant, 
opening the door, 

“There is no one here,” she said. “Never mind, 
Rogers ; I can wait ; they are still in the dining-room, 
I suppose ?’ ’ 

“ No, my lady ; but I will find the Vicar.” 

He closed the door. Her ladyship laid aside her 
cloak. 

“No one here, indeed !” she said, in a low voice. 

‘ ‘ Why, here is the Vicar asleep, poor dear ; his even- 
ing siesta. Dear me ! Now, here’s a chance. Fancy 
winning a pair of gloves from the Vicar ! I will.” 

She took from a tiny gold case a card, and with a 
pencil that hung with a bunch of charms from a dainty 
chain at her bosom, she wrote, “'Sixes and then 
raised the handkerchief, to discover Lord Cleeve, his 
eyes wide open. 

“ Oh, it’s you, is it !” she said, drawing back. “ I 
didn’t do it ! mind ; indeed, I didn’t ! I declare I 
mistook you for the Vicar. Oh ! you’ve given me 
such a turn ! . . . You are surprised to see me. You 
think me an odd woman to pay a visit at this time of 

2I6 


THE VICAR 


night. Not more surprised than I am to find Miss 
Woodcote not yet returned from Wulstan.’* 

“ Oh, it is not late,*’ said Cleeve. “ Miss Woodcote 
has gone to a party at the Deanery, and it is only half- 
past nine.” 

‘‘You have been counting the hours ; she has not, it 
seems.” 

‘ ‘ I don’ t understand you. Lady Berwick. ’ ’ 

‘‘ Never min ; don’t. I like to be mysterious.” 

‘‘We certainly do not judge you by ordinary rules.” 

‘ ‘ What do you mean by that ?’ ’ 

‘‘You asked me if I did not think it strange you 
should call at this time of night. ’ ’ 

‘‘Oh, yes; I forgot. Doesn’t ‘this time of night’ 
sound odd, when we think it is little more than dinner- 
time in town, and the day, in fact, is only just beginning ? 
Where is the Vicar, may I ask ?’ ’ 

“ He has gone to look after his fastenings.” 

“ His fastenings ?” 

‘‘Yes. There are suspicious characters about.” 

‘‘Meaning me?” 

‘‘You like to be mysterious, you say.” 

“ The truth is, I knew you were here. I have been 
to a Dorcas meeting. There was a recitation ; that 
made us later than usual. I dine early for Dorcas 
meetings. The Vicar’s housekeeper told me you and 
the Vicar were dining alone, and that Miss Woodcote 
was not expected home until quite late ; so I thought 
I might just catch you — not napping,” she said, with 
her charming little laugh that was like a musical 
smile. 

‘ ‘ Then you did not come to see the Vicar ?’ ’ 

‘‘ Oh, yes, after you,” she said ; adding, ‘‘may I sit 
near you ? I have some good news, and I could not 
217 


THE VICAR 


keep it to myself until to-morrow, even at the risk of 
incurring your displeasure at so late a call. ’ ’ 

“Not my displeasure, Lady Berwick ; and this is not 
Cleeve House, it is the Vicarage.” 

“Ah, you need not remind me of that. Cleeve 
House is the most home-like mansion in the county ; 
the Vicarage is a cottage to Cleeve ; both lovely in 
their way ; but Cleeve ! Is your lordship aware that I 
have only once dined at Cleeve ?’ ’ 

“You remind me how seldom I am at Cleeve, and 
how little I have availed myself of the kindly feelings of 
my neighbours. But that was a very pleasant time you 
mention. ’ ’ 

“You do not forget it?” 

“ Forget, Lady Berwick !” 

“ No, of course ; I did not mean that. You know 
how my foolish tongue will run along at times. If only 
Cleeve House had a mistress, what a delightful time we 
ladies of the county might have !” 

“Yes,” said Lord Cleeve. “Bachelorhood has 
many disadvantages.” 

‘ ‘ And few privileges, ’ ’ said her ladyship. 

“But the good news?” said Cleeve. “From 
whence ?’ ’ 

“ From America.” 

“ From whom ?’’ 

“ Poor Tom Hussingtree. ” 

“Oh,” said Cleeve, in a disappointed, ejaculatory 
way; “indeed!” 

“You surprise me. Lord Cleeve,” said her ladyship, 
with a break in her usual purring and fondling manner. 

‘ ‘ I should have thought that a generous man, such as 
you, would have been delighted to hear anything good 
of your best friend’s son, and even, let me say, of poor 
218 


THE VICAR 


Susannah’s lover. You did not know of their engage- 
ment when you proposed for her, or you would never 
have confessed that you loved her.” 

‘ ‘ I suppose not. There are occasions when one is 
not quite master of oneself. ’ ’ 

Lady Berwick had often hoped to find him in that 
helpless condition ; but hitherto he had been proof 
against her wiles, and they were very fascinating, it 
must be owned ; if the Vicar had been younger, he 
might have been caught had the widow fished for him ; 
but her ambition did not lie in the direction of the 
Church. 

“It is none the less a fact that Tom and Susannah 
are engaged, is it ?’ ’ 

“In the fulness of your charity, extend a little to 
me.” 

“ With all my heart. No one knows better than I 
how generous you are, and what a broad view you 
take of duty and friendship.” 

“It is good of you to think you know me to be 
generous. Lady Berwick ; but a truce to compli- 
ments. ’ ’ 

“Well, I have had a most interesting letter from 
Tom Hussingtree. Here it is.” 

She held out a letter, that Lord Cleeve might take it 
and read it ; but he made no response ; so she put it 
back into some mysterious pocket or other, and detailed 
its alleged contents. 

‘ ‘ He has been doing good work and making 
money,” she said, “in California and New York, and 
hopes soon to return to England ; says he means to call 
upon me in London, asks me to write by the first mail 
and tell him when I shall be in town ; wants my advice 
about Susannah. What a power this love is in young 
219 


THE VICAR 


people ! What devotion ! How sweet it is to watch 
the budding, growth, and maturity of a pure sentiment 
in youthful hearts !’ ’ 

“ That is not how the Dorcas commentaries ran. Lady 
Berwick,” said Cleeve, in a bantering tone of voice, 
that jarred upon the studied little outburst of the pretty 
intrigante. 

“ Cynic !” she exclaimed. “You are right, though. 
Dorcas was very pious in its reflections. It has no 
patience with what we call young love, and all that 
kind of business ; it hates disparity of marital union ; 
but, I assure you, it is very fond of widows.” 

And she laughed her merry, chromatic concatena- 
tion. 

‘ ‘ But that may be selfishness, you know. They 
desire to please me ; I am their Providence, as you 
may say ; and some of them are widows, too ; such 
widows ! Lord, lord, it is wonderful what men will 
marry !” 

‘ ‘ Dorcas must be an interesting study for a clever 
woman, who can compare it with Charity’s ‘ Evenings 
at Home’ in Shoreditch, and the Good Samaritan 
Rescue Societies of the West-End of town.” 

“All life is interesting; none more so than the 
seamy side of .it, if your heart is not all hard and 
is content with merely satisfying a morbid curiosity. 
Have you ever done a course of what they call ‘ slum- 
ming’ in town ?’ * 

“No.” 

“ Not just a little bit? It was all the fashion a year 
or two ago.” 

“ Not just a little bit.” 

“I’m sorry ; and you would have been sorry. Really, 
Lord Cleeve, believe me or believe me not, the first 
220 


THE VICAR 


time in my life when I felt very glad that I am rich was 
on my first slumming expedition in the East- End.” 

‘ ‘ Believe you ? Why, of course I believe you, Lady 
Berwick. Charity is often a selfish impulse. Not in 
your case ; I know that. It is so with me. A beggar 
in rags and with bare feet on a cold day, head low in 
bending humbleness, touches me to the quick. I hate 
to see people suffer ; poverty makes me wretched, 
until I have relieved it. Selfishness, Lady Berwick, 
selfishness ! One night I rebuked a poor wretch as 
I was leaving my club. I was in a hurry ; his face 
haunted me. I went back half a mile to find the 
ruffian ; not alone to relieve him, but to comfort my- 
self ; and I slept the better for it. Selfishness, my 
dear Lady Berwick !” 

“You are in a strange mood to-night,” she sdd. 

‘ ‘ I don’ t know what to make of you. ’ ’ 

‘ ‘ Whatever it pleases you to make of me, Lady 
Berwick.” 

She wished he would not address her as Lady Ber- 
wick so often. 

“You jest,” she said, dropping her eyes and her 
voice at the same time, with a pretty affectation of 
sentiment. 

‘ ‘ Do I ?” he replied, looking at her. ‘ ‘ I wonder !’ ’ 

She wondered too ; but she was not there at the 
moment to push her fortunes with Lord Cleeve, except, 
at least, in a preliminary way. She had to get rid of 
Susannah ; that mission was as yet unfulfilled ; it was 
well on the way ; it must be consummated before she 
opened siege upon Cleeve for herself alone. 

“But really. Lord Cleeve,” she said, suddenly, 
‘ ‘ how is this business to be arranged ?’ ’ 

“ What business ?” 


221 


THE VICAR 


“The Vicar must give his consent to Susannah’s 
marriage with Tom ; you must help me to arrange it. 
How is it to be done ?’ ’ 

“ Do you know why Tom left England?” 

“Because the Vicar drove him forth.” 

“Did he?” 

“ Did he not?” 

‘ ‘ He did not tell us so on that day when he explained 
that his son would go abroad for a time. ’ ’ 

“Tom told me so.” 

“ Indeed.” 

‘ ‘ Tom came to say Good-bye to me, and told me all. ’ ’ 
“All !” 

‘ ‘ No; he did not exactly tell me all, but I guessed it. ” 
“Yes?” 

‘ ‘ Bradley knew it. ’ ’ 

‘ ‘ The Superintendent ?’ ’ 

“ Yes ; but he did not tell me. My maid, the best 
and cleverest servant a poor lonely widow ever had, 
was the girl’s aunt.” 

“ Lizzie Melford’s aunt?” 

“Yes.” 

“I knew that Tom led you to believe he was a 
martyr to his love for Miss Woodcote.” 

“He certainly said nothing of Lizzie Melford ; and 
why should he ? A young designing minx. Why is 
it in cases of this kind that the man alone is blamed ?’ ’ 

‘ ‘ What can be said in defence of one who takes 
advantage of his position of distinction and privilege 
to seduce a girl and then cast her off ?’ ’ 

“ Nothing, of course, my dear Lord Cleeve; nothing. 
But she ran away, and that village ne’ er-do-weel, Luke 
Fenton, after her ; he was her lover, you know.” 

‘ ‘ Bradley told you ?’ ’ 


222 


THE VICAR 


“Yes.’’ 

“Bradley promised not to mention Fenton’s con- 
fession to anybody.” 

“Well, I am nobody, I suppose.” 

‘ ‘ I don’ t object to your knowing the truth, whatever 
it may be ; and there is not much doubt about who 
the betrayer was. The Vicar knew, and desired his 
son to make the only honourable amends a man can 
make in such a case ; he refused ; the Vicar forbade 
him his house until such time as he might deem him 
worthy to come back.” 

“ Even Macfarlane did not blame Tom.” 

“Nor would he, whatever Tom did. Macfarlane 
has the heart of an oyster, as cold and as flabby. ’ ’ 

‘ ‘ Susannah, I believe, knows nothing of the scandal. ’ ’ 

“Nothing, I understand.” 

“The Vicar preaches the duty of charity and for- 
giveness every Sunday.” 

“And repentance and reparation,” said Cleeve. 

“Tom has repented. I’ll answer for him; and all 
young men have a few wild oats to sow. I remember 
a certain Oxford Undergraduate, before he came into 
the Peerage, who spent a merry vacation in London 
now and then, not to mention Paris and Monte 
Carlo. ’ ’ 

“Nor does he forget a charming lady who received 
him at Grosvenor Square with special consideration, 
even though he was a mere commoner and not too 
well off, — nor the little dinners her hospitable husband 
gave both at home and at the Carlton. ’ ’ 

“Ah, those were happy days. Lord Cleeve. You 
were Fred Leggett then ; full of fun, the admired of all 
admirers. ’ ’ 

“You had the same kindly fault then that you have 
223 


THE VICAR 

now, Lady Berwick ; you were always too compli- 
mentary. ’ ’ 

“You never come to Grosvenor Square now,” she 
said, plaintively. 

“Never ! I was there twice last season.” 

‘ * Twice !’ ’ she said, with a little toss of her head. 

‘ ‘ But that brings me to what I was going to say The 
Vicar must come to town, and bring Susannah. ’ ’ 

“He has not been to town for years. Doesn’t like 
town. I don’t think he has been in London a dozen 
times in all his long life. ’ ’ 

‘ ‘ The more reason why he should come now. Be- 
sides, does he never mean to take Susannah to Lon- 
don ? Is she always to be mewed up here, like a girl 
in a convent ?’ * 

‘ ‘ Susannah only likes places the Vicar likes ; Bourne- 
mouth, Lynton, Penzance, and Lucerne. I think they 
comprise the Vicar’s ideas of holiday and change.” 

“ The Vicar is a dear, good, fine fellow ; but it is a 
pity for Susannah’s sake he is not a woman ; and can’t 
you understand that the time may come when Susannah 
will revolt against this kind of narrow limitation of life ?’ ’ 

“ You want Hussingtree to go to London in the in- 
terest of Susannah?” 

“Yes.” 

‘ ‘ I understand you. But suppose the Vicar should 
explain to Susannah the true reason why Tom went 
away from home ?’ ’ 

‘ ‘ He will not, if you advise him not to do so. And 
why should he, if Tom comes back repentant and pros- 
perous ?’ ’ 

“The Prodigal Son — with a difference, eh?” 

“You will not take life seriously ; and yet it is time 
you did.” 


224 


THE VICAR 


“lam afraid you have no idea what funeral chimes 
are moaning under the jangle of the cap and bells with 
which your fancy adorns my unhappy head. ’ ’ 

‘ ‘ Change them for a wedding peal — that is the pleas- 
antest music in the world. But, hush ! I hear the 
Vicar and Susannah ; they are coming this way.” 

The Vicar was laughing heartily, and Susannah’s 
voice was full of merriment. She was telling him some- 
thing amusing that had occurred at Wulstan ; so they 
both entered the room with happy radiant faces. 


15 


22s 


CHAPTER XXX. 


THE VICAR ACCEPTS LADY BERWICK’S INVITATION 
TO TOWN. 

“Oh, how do you do?” said Susannah, in high 
spirits. “This is a delightful surprise. And Lord 
Cleeve ! How are you both ?’ ’ 

“Very well indeed, my dear,’’ Lady Berwick re- 
plied, kissing the flushed young face. 

“Yes, thank you, I can say the same,’’ Lord Cleeve 
answered, as Susannah looked towards him and put out 
her hand. 

‘ ‘ I have not taken my gloves off yet, you see. The 
Vicar was in such a hurry to bring me in. He was 
waiting in the porch for me.’’ 

“My darling,’’ said the Vicar, “I had just been 
saying Good-night to an official ; I think I may say an 
officious neighbour without offence. ’ ’ 

‘ ‘ I am going to town next week, ’ ’ said Lord Cleeve, 
“and thought I might take Comberton en route y the 
Vicar was so pressing.’’ 

‘ ‘ I am very glad, ’ ’ said Susannah, as a maid-servant 
stepped forward and took her cloak and hood, and left 
behind her the prettily clad figure of a fresh, young, un- 
spoiled county girl, frank and free, without affectation, 
and equally without rouge. 

“ Sit down, my dear,’’ said the Vicar. 

“ It is very late, I fear ; but they were so pleasant at 
the Deanery, and would have me stay. The Dean read 
a poem by Lord Tennyson that has never been pub- 
226 


THE VICAR 


lished. The High Sheriff was present. He ventured 
to remark that if the clergy would only read the Les- 
sons as well as the Dean read the poem, how much 
more enjoyable the Church Service would be ; where- 
upon the Dean said, ‘ Don’t you think we can read, 
Mr. High Sheriff?’ ‘ Some of you,’ said the Sheriff, 
quite boldly. And then the Dean’s son, the young 
curate of Windersley, rose and said he thought if the 
High Sheriff would come to his patron’s church he 
would hear the Service read properly. ‘ Give us an 
example, Dick,’ said the Dean, in his quiet, natural, 
and familiar way ; and the Reverend Dick stood forth 
and gave us a few verses from the Sermon on the 
Mount, and, do you know, the tears came into the 
High Sheriff’s eyes, and he said he would in future 
attend at least one service a week at Windersley.” 

‘ ‘ And is that why you are so merry ?’ ’ asked the 
Vicar, with a smile. 

” Is it the joy of woe ?’ ’ asked Lady Berwick, patting 
the girl’s round arm. “ One of my old pensioners at 
Powyke positively revels in the saddest chapters of the 
New Testament.” 

‘ ‘ That incident was early in the evening. Lady Ber- 
wick ; nor was it exactly sad, because, you see, it may 
be said to have converted the High Sheriff. But what 
official have you had at the Vicarage?” she asked, 
turning to the Vicar. 

“ Only Bradley, the policeman,” said the Vicar. 

‘ ‘ Bradley ?’ ’ she said, inquiringly. 

‘ ‘ He says there are suspicious characters about, and 
called to tell us to see to our fastenings.” 

‘ ‘ Poor Bradley, ’ ’ said Susannah, “he is so fussy. 
He warned me the other day against helping tramps 
whom I met on the road ; suspects Granny Metcalf of 
227 


THE VICAR 


having purloined, ‘ to her own uses, ’ to quote his silly 
words, two night-caps that have been missed from the 
stores of Dorcas.” 

Whereupon Cleeve laughed, and Lady Berwick re- 
marked that Bradley “had soared above night-caps 
this time. I suppose he is afraid some one will steal 
you, my love.” 

“ They would have a tiresome bargain, would they 
not, dear ?’ ’ said Susannah to the Vicar. 

“A very sweet one,” the Vicar answered, with just 
the least passing glance at Cleeve. 

“Well, now,” said her ladyship, “I can see you 
are thinking of my poor horses out in the cold, and I 
do believe it is beginning to snow. Poor Lord Cleeve 
was asleep when I came in ! But, really, those poor 
horses must stay and shiver under their cloths, which I 
hope my coachman has put on them, until you have 
made me a promise.” 

“What promise?” asked the Vicar, looking from 
Cleeve to Susannah. 

‘ ‘ I don’ t know, ’ ’ Susannah answered, looking in- 
quiringly at Lady Berwick. 

‘ ‘ Lady Berwick wants the Vicar and you to pay her 
a visit in town. ’ ’ 

“ To be present at one of her ladyship’s fashionable 
receptions?’* said the Vicar, discouragingly. 

‘ ‘ Not fashionable. Vicar. I am most unfashion- 
able. You might even say I am a Radical in Vanity 
Fair.” 

“ I hope not,” the Vicar replied. 

“And yet I don’t think you would regret coming to 
one of my Evenings at Grosvenor House. ’ ’ 

“We are plain people down here in Comberton- 
cum-Besford,” said the Vicar, “and don’t care to in- 
228 


THE VICAR 


terfere with our neighbour or hastily judge a class of 
Society with which we are unacquainted ; but we have 
a clear idea of the company it is good for us to keep — 
or otherwise. ’ ’ 

“ Oh, my dear Vicar, what do you mean?” 

“Nothing that should hurt your feelings, my dear 
Lady Berwick, nothing censorious in regard to what is 
called London Society, but ” 

‘ ‘ Lord Cleeve has been telling you that I receive a 
somewhat mixed company now and then during the sea- 
son in town, that he has met at my house actresses who 
are not in the Peerage and painters who are not R. A.’s ; 
that among my very miscellaneous guests Ministers of 
State elbow struggling authors, that Sarah Bernhardt 
has met there a Royal Princess, — queens of Society, 
my dear Vicar, are not necessarily better women than 
queens of the Stage — or worse. Even the sacred plains 
of Heaven will see a very mixed crowd, if all one believes 
about Forgiveness of Sins be true.” 

‘ ‘ My dear Lady Berwick !’ ’ exclaimed the Vicar, 
with an amazed expression of countenance ; ‘ ‘ your 
defence of London verges on the profane.” 

“ Forgive me. Vicar. You have always commended 
me for being outspoken. ’ ’ 

“And generous, dear Lady Berwick, — and gener- 
ous,” he said, puzzled how to take her; “a woman 
with a great knowledge of the world, and we are such 
quiet, humble, untravelled folk down here ! My dear 
friend, I judge people by my own knowledge of them, 
and my neighbours by their acts. You have been a 
Godsend and a blessing to Comberton and Powyke ; 
other spheres, other methods ; I can’ t believe that in 
any walk of life your feet do not tread the way good 
women walk. And so there, let us say no more about 
229 


THE VICAR 


London, which to Susannah and me is as mysterious a 
place as the Bagdad of fable.” 

‘ ‘ But, my dear Vicar, we will say more about it 1 
Since you have so poor, I will not say so bad, an opin- 
ion of London, you ought, as a matter of duty, to 
come and see it in these newer days ; everything is so 
changed since you were as young as Susannah, — is it 
not so. Lord Cleeve ?’ ’ 

“No doubt, no doubt,” Cleeve answered. 

‘ ‘ Besides, it is part of an education to know some- 
thing of the capital of the Empire. If Londoners were 
patriotic, and loved their city as you love Comberton, 
it would be the finest and most beautiful you could ever 
see or read of ; but Londoners are a sordid lot ; there 
are fine and noble exceptions. Did you ever hear of 
Lord’s?” 

“The Cricket-ground?” said the Vicar, quickly. 

* ‘ Of course. ’ ’ 

“Well, for the bribe of a slip of ground to enlarge 
their field and wicket, they permitted a freight line of a 
country railway to tunnel the place and break through 
the only garden-suburb of the capital ; for a mess of 
pottage they sold to Greed and the cheap ambition of a 
railway speculator the healthiest lung of the great town, 
a suburb of country houses and country gardens, a land 
perfumed with lilacs and gay with laburnum in the 
Spring, dotted with tennis lawns in the Summer, and 
the scene of happy social meetings in the Winter, 
where the tall, ugly houses of the city streets were un- 
known, and where, with the Watkin Great Central 
Railway, they are now building tenement houses and 
flats, that might become Shoreditch, but are blots on 
the garden-suburb of the capital of the Empire.” 

“ Bravo, Lady Berwick! ” said Cleeve. “ Well said. 

230 


THE VICAR 


and with fine point I I wish you could have appeared 
before that worldly Parliamentary Committee ; not that 
you would have influenced them ; they select Commit- 
tees purposely to sit on subjects they know nothing of ; 
it is thought that will make them impartial ; not a sin- 
gle Londoner sat on the Committee that gave the 
North-West district of town over to the traders who 
bribed Lord’s and who are dragging down a rural 
pleasance to the level of Camden Town.” 

“ Thank you, Lord Cleeve,” said Lady Berwick. 

“And thank you,” his lordship replied. “What- 
ever may be our differences on other subjects, we are 
agreed in our estimation of London.” 

“ And its betrayers,” said Lady Berwick ; “ though 
I don’ t know that we disagree much on other subjects. ’ ’ 

‘ ‘ I feel sure you do not, ’ ’ said the Vicar. ‘ ‘ But, 
listening to you, one can hardly help being conscious 
of one’s ignorance of ” 

‘ * Many things that you ought to be acquainted with. 
Vicar,” said her ladyship; “though, of course, you 
make up for it in your knowledge of the dead languages 
and the dead cities, and all that.” 

‘ ‘ And, I hope, I am not altogether ignorant of the 
living verities. Lady Berwick, and the calls of hu- 
manity. ’ ’ 

“ In Comberton,” she said, smiling; “but London 
is also worth a thought.” 

“ Of course it is,” said the Vicar ; “and there are, 
I believe, many devoted clergymen who labour night 
and day for its good.” 

‘ ‘ Come and meet some of them at Grosvenor House. 
They are not above associating with the artists and 
writers and even journalists who honour me by accept- 
ing my invitations.” 


231 


THE VICAR 


“You press me hard, Lady Berwick. I will go — 
with Cleeve, if he will accompany us. There !’ ’ 

‘ ‘ Thank you very much, ’ ’ said her ladyship. ‘ ‘ W ell. 
Lord Cleeve, I really must say Good-night ; my horses 
will be suffering. You would like to go to London, 
Susannah, eh?“ 

“ If the Vicar would care to take me.” 

^ ‘ Ah, well, I see this is a little conspiracy ; and I 
won’t resist the plot. If Susannah is to be made the 
happier by a change of the kind you suggest, well 
there, we will come ! The last time I was in town I 
had some rooms in Half Moon Street ; it is a long 
time ago. ’ ’ 

‘ ‘ But you will come and stay at Grosvenor House ?’ ’ 
“No, dear Lady Berwick, in that matter you must 
permit me to have my own way. Besides, you will 
very likely have a house-party. I like to be quiet and 
dislike disturbing others, do I not, dear ?’ ’ 

“Yes,” said Susannah. 

‘ ‘ I shall write to Half Moon Street. ’ ’ 

‘ ‘ My house is at your service, Hussingtree. I shall 
stay at an hotel during my short visit to town. I am 
really on the wing, as you may say ; I have no end of 
plans of travel to get through. I need not say how 
welcome you would be ; and I am sure my servants 
would take care of you ; you can, of course, take up 
your own, if you would care to.” 

“No, no, my dear Cleeve ; we shall take rooms in 
Half Moon Street or thereabouts. I will get my law- 
yer to see to it for me ; don’t you trouble any more. 
We accept your invitation to an Evening at Grosvenor 
House, Lady Berwick.” 

“Spoken like the good, dear man you are,” she 
said, taking the Vicar’s hand. “And now, Good- 
232 


THE VICAR 


night to all of you ; and a Merry Christmas when it 
comes, and all kinds of other good wishes.’^ 

Susannah rang the bell ; a servant appeared on the 
moment. 

‘ ‘ My carriage is at the door ?’ ’ 

“Yes, my lady, — has been there some time,” said 
Rogers. 

“Then Good-night again,” she said, as she left the 
room, while the Vicar held the door open. 

‘ ‘ What a dear, kind, remarkable woman it is !’ ’ he 
said, about to close it, when she returned. 

“One moment. Vicar,” she said. “You are not 
unknown in town, however little you may know of 
London. Your light has not been quite hidden under 
the bushel of Comberton ; they’ll be wanting you to 
preach, so you must bring up some sermons. ’ ’ 

‘ ‘ Really ?’ ’ said the Vicar. 

“Most certaiiily ! Good- night ! Susannah, dear, 
one moment.” 

Susannah followed Lady Berwick into the passage. 

“Don’t be startled, dear,” said her ladyship in a 
whisper. “Good news ; a letter from Tom ; keep it 
to yourself. Good-night, my sweetest. ’ ’ 

And her ladyship left the girl with a hurried kiss 
(some would have added, “the kiss of a Judas in 
petticoats ;” but Lady Berwick was not quite as bad 
as that) and the letter which she had offered to Lord 
Cleeve. 


233 


CHAPTER XXXI. 


THE RETURN OF THE PRODIGAL. 

* ‘ That’ s an exceedingly good woman, ’ ’ said the 
Vicar, as Lady Berwick’s carriage was heard rattling 
away through the Vicarage grounds ; “a thoughtful, 
considerate, and a remarkable woman. Susannah, 
dear, ring for the tray ; Cleeve and I will have our 
night-cap ; he will smoke a cigar, I shall indulge in a 
pipe, and then we will go to bed. ’ ’ 

As she rose to ring, the servant entered with a tray 
of spirit bottles, Cleeve’ s cigars, the Vicar’s tobacco- 
box, and the classic lamp with its blue flame climbing 
towards the apex of its quaint tripod. 

“A very considerate person,” said the Vicar. 

‘ ‘ What ! Rogers ?’ ’ remarked Cleeve, with a quiet 
laugh, desirous of changing the subject, for he did 
not think Lady Berwick the dear, good, considerate 
creature of the Vicar’s estimation. 

‘‘Dear me, no !” said the Vicar. ‘‘Lady Berwick. 
Susannah, dear, do you mind giving us a little music, 
the old German song, eh ?’ ’ And he repeated the first 
verse of the English translation. 

Susannah sat down at the organ, and coaxed the 
delicious melody from key and stop, and modulated 
it from major to minor, and gave it sympathetic sug- 
gestions of new phraseology. The Vicar filled his pipe. 
Lord Cleeve lighted his cigar. Rogers made the grog, 
and then silently withdrew. A star still shone into the 
room through the glass at the top of the old-fashioned 
shutters ; and Susannah for the moment put aside her 
234 


THE VICAR 


doubts and fears and hopes and speculations about the 
letter that Lady Berwick had so mysteriously placed in 
her hand. 

“ I like a night-cap, don’t you, Cleeve?” 

“ Indeed I do, in pleasant company.” 

‘ ‘ Do they smoke at Grosvenor House ?’ ’ 

* ‘ I suppose they do. The ladies and gentlemen her 
ladyship spoke of smoke.” 

” The ladies ?” 

“ Oh, yes. The cigarette is permitted in the highest 
society. ’ ’ 

“You surprise me.” 

“It does seem rather strange, not to say disagree- 
able, in England to see a lady take up a cigarette after 
dinner and smoke with the men ; but in Spain I think 
one likes it, and in Russia the ladies have their own 
smoking-rooms, as we have.” 

“It is a great thing to have seen the world, ’ ’ said 
the Vicar, leaning back in his chair and watching the 
smoke from his pipe. ‘ ‘ Do you know what induced 
me to consent to go to town next season and spend an 
evening at Grosvenor House ?’ ’ 

“You felt that Susannah would like it, and Lady 
Berwick was so very pressing. ’ ’ 

‘ ‘ Because you said you would go with us. It came 
into my mind that such a visit might make an oppor- 
tunity for you to speak frankly to Susannah, and tell 
her what we feel, both of us, is for her happiness. I 
don’t know why it occurred to me that there might 
be more opportunity in town than here in Comberton. 
Perhaps because you would not feel you were taking 
advantage of being in my house and having my ap- 
proval, and so on. My dear friend, I would not ask 
you to come here notwithstanding our great and valued 

235 


THE VICAR 


friendship if I did not feel sure in my heart that Susan- 
nah loves you, and is for some unaccountable reason 
sacrificing herself, perhaps only for a mere idea or a 
whim — sacrificing herself and you. ’ ’ 

‘ ‘ She knows all I would say if I dared. ’ ’ 

‘ ‘ She loves you, Cleeve ; and with her love there 
is that true esteem that sanctifies love and makes mar- 
riage a certain happiness. ’ ’ 

‘ ‘ But her word, old friend ! She will never break 
it ; and you and I should be the last to say she is not 
right.” 

Susannah paused for a moment. They stopped 
talking. Then she passed from the old German song 
into one of Bach’s fugues ; and from a dreamy pathos 
of melody, half- disguised in harmonious impromptus, 
the music became defiant. The Vicar listened for a 
moment, and then, satisfied that they might still con- 
tinue their conversation without Susannah hearing them, 
replied to Cleeve. 

” It was a rash promise,” he said ; “it has not even 
the importance of a vow, and Heaven has cancelled 
many an oath less recklessly made than that same weak 
acceptance of an unrighteous proposal. ’ ’ 

‘ ‘ Her moral sense is too highly wrought, I fear, to 
give way before such arguments. ’ ’ 

“There must be two holy promises to the fulfilment 
of that vow, and only one is registered ; for my son can 
never marry Susannah Woodcote. Don’t you think it 
is a terrible thing for a father to know that his only son 
is unworthy of an honest love ? But would it not be 
the height of dishonour if I permitted my ward, a sacred 
and holy trust, to be mated to such a man ? Think of 
a girl so pure and good, so beautiful, being sacrificed 
because a promise has been filched from her.” 

236 


THE VICAR 


My dear Vicar, do you think Lady Berwick was 
unduly in their secret ? I mean, does it ever occur to 
you that she may have exercised an influence favourable 
to Tom ?” 

‘ ‘ Sometimes such thoughts have crossed my mind ; 
but then, you know, every woman is a match-maker. 
She was always very kind to Tom ; and once upon a 
time the lad was a fine fellow, we all thought, an honest 
piece of young English manhood ! But it does not bear 
thinking of !’ ’ he said, after a pause, and drew his hand- 
kerchief across his eyes and laid down his pipe. 

Susannah struck a false chord, and stammered, if one 
may use the expression, into a series of discords, as 
if she were vainly trying to get back into the key she 
had wandered from ; and then suddenly stopped. 

“ Why, my dear, what is it ?” said the Vicar, rising 
from his seat. 

‘ ‘ I think I am tired, dear, and my head aches a 
little.” 

“We will go to bed, my child; we are all rather 
tired ; and you especially have had a very trying day. 
Besides, it is getting late. Good-night, my love. ’ ^ 

He kissed her on both cheeks. 

“Good-night, Lord Cleeve,” she said. 

His lordship took her hand with formal respect, and 
said, “ Good-night, Miss Woodcote ; sleep well.” 

Then he opened the door, and stood there after she 
had left the room, as if he listened to her footsteps and 
hesitated before shutting out the lightest sound of them 
and the rustle of her dress. 

Presently, the Vicar and Cleeve having said ‘ ‘ Good- 
night’ ’ to each other and left the room, Macfarlane en- 
tered, closed the door, and sat down in the Vicar’s 
chair. He was the last of the household, as a rule, to 

237 


THE VICAR 


go to bed. It was his duty to clear the Vicar’s table, 
see that the fires were raked out or banked up, as the 
case might be, and the house properly closed and 
secured for the night. 

“The Veecar thinks whaskey hot is a man’s best 
night-cap. On occasion, it’s weel to tak’ it unso- 
pheesticated. ’ ’ 

He filled a tumbler half-full of spirit, and sipped it 
gradually until the glass was empty. Then he took 
from his waistcoat pocket a small horn box, and in- 
haled a mighty pinch of snuff. 

“I’ll jest need all the fortifyin’ artificial means 
may provide a man ; it’s an awfu’ thing I’m gaein’ to 
dae. ’ ’ 

He went to the door and listened ; opened it and 
listened ; looked at the clock on the mantelpiece, and 
cast his eyes towards the window. 

“ It isna’ reicht for the lad to starve ; and he’s the 
Veecar’ s heir an’ his ain son — his ainly son ; an’ be- 
sides, there’s scrip in the safe that belongs to him, he 
says, — his ain property, his verra ain ; and if he could 
be sure of twa or three hundred pounds, he could re- 
turn like the Prodigal Son, but weel dressed and pros- 
perous, and, may be, marry Lady Berwick or Miss 
Woodcote, and have nae need to beg or borrow, or 
tek’ violently what is his ain, and live happy ever after, 
as the sayin’ is. Eh, but it’s an awfu’ risky thing to 
do. And a wacked thing whateffer ! Aye, and a 
deev’lish thing.” 

Then he fumbled in his pockets and brought out a 
key, with which he quietly unlocked the safe. 

Then opening the Vicar’s writing desk, he took from 
his pocket a bunch of keys, the Vicar’s library keys, 
mostly used for bookcases and cabinets, and opened a 
238 


THE VICAR 


secret drawer where the key of the safe was kept, and 
forthwith unlocked the iron chest ; replacing the key, 
relocking the desk, and remarking to himself, “The 
Veecar will jist think he’d left them in the bureau,’’ 
and there he placed them, hanging naturally enough 
from a key in the lock. 

“It’s weel understood the Veecar is careless, as 
Maister Tom truly observed. I reckon I’ll get hanged 
for him before I’ve done. My legs are tremblin’ 
under me, and my hand shakes as if I’d contracted the 
palsy. ’ ’ 

He filled his glass again and inhaled more snuff, by 
which time the clock on the mantel began to strike the 
hour. He turned, with a start of anxiety. 

“Eh, by the mighty powers. I’m that scared. I 
might have seen a warlock or hear’ d the chuckle o’ the 
de’il lyin’ i’ wait for me. Eleven o’clock ! Eh, Veecar, 
but I’m jist a damned scoundrel ! Ou ay’, that’s a 
fact! But it’s for the rightfu’ heir; he has need o’ 
siller, an’ he maun ha’ e it this way, or he may be gettin’ 
it wi’ Konkey Jim at his elbow, in some mair awfu’ 
fashion. ’ ’ 

Thereupon Macfarlane turned down the tiny blue 
flame of the classic lamp, blew out the candles, unfas- 
tened the shutter-bar, unlatched the window, stole out 
of the room, and bolted the door behind him. 

As he did so, the window-sash was quietly raised, 
the shutter thrust open, and a man entered and went 
straight to the safe. He turned the bull’s-eye of a 
dark-lantern upon it, seized the handle, pulled open 
the door, and took out a couple of drawers. 

While he was engaged in sorting the papers and fill- 
ing his pockets with notes and a small quantity of loose 
gold, the door was unbolted from without, and Susan- 

239 


THE VICAR 


nah entered with a candle-lamp in her hand. She had 
dropped the letter Lady Berwick had given her, and 
had come to look for it, where she had sat, at the 
organ. She was well in the room before she saw the 
man engaged in front of the safe, the light partly on his 
face. She tried to cry out, but her voice failed her. 
She clung to the seat by the organ, and the candle 
dropped from her hand. 

A man suddenly appeared at the open window, his 
dark shadow silhouetted against a starlit night. He 
had been keeping guard without. The man by the 
safe turned for a moment as the other appeared. 
Susannah saw his face. 

‘ ‘ What is it ?’ ’ he asked, in a hoarse whisper, but- 
toning his coat and shutting off the light. 

“The house is alarmed; there’s somebody in the 
room. ’ ’ 

‘ ‘ Rot !’ ’ said the other. 

‘ ‘ Come on, you fool, ’ ’ rejoined the man at the 
window. 

At that moment the alarm-bell rang out, loud and 
long ; and the two disappeared. 

Susannah crept from her hiding-place, fled to her 
room, and burst into tears. 


240 


CHAPTER XXXII. 


AN EVENTFUL NIGHT. 

The Vicar was the first to appear on the scene of the 
robbery. He had been sitting by the fire in his bed- 
room, pondering over the events of the day ; grieving 
at what he regarded as the loss of his son ; wondering 
what Lady Berwick might mean by her persistent desire 
that he and Susannah should visit town in May ; pray- 
ing that a way might be found to bring his ward and 
Lord Cleeve together ; resolved that his son should not 
commit the offence of marrying her, bound as he was 
to another, even if Lizzie Melford were dead. What- 
ever the conduct of his son might be, he would provide 
for him ; how, depended upon Tom’s conduct ; it 
might be that he would have to tie up his money in 
trust, so that he could only receive it as a pension, 
month by month. It was clear from Macfarlane’s report 
that he had little prospect of receiving back to his 
hearth a reformed and dutiful son. But he had long 
made up his mind to regard Tom as practically dead, 
so far as any steadfast hope of his good conduct was 
concerned ; though Lady Berwick, in the kindness of 
her heart, had encouraged him to have faith in his 
reformation and ultimate prosperity. 

He had hardly entered the library, when Lord Cleeve 
stood by his side. 

“ Ah, old friend, I fear Bradley was right after all.” 

” Evidently,” the Vicar replied, lifting his candle- 
lamp so as to expose the open safe to view. 
i6 241 


THE VICAR 


* ‘ The shutter and window open, ’ ’ said Cleeve, exam- 
ining them, “ and no splinters. Very odd.” 

“Yes,” said the Vicar, lighting the candles on the 
mantel. ” Who rung the alarm-bell ?” 

‘ ‘ I did, if you please, ’ ’ said Rogers, the soft-footed 
man-servant, who appeared with a dark-lantern. ‘ ‘ I 
w^as just getting into bed, when, drawing the blind, I 
noticed a light by the library window that couldn’ t have 
been there by rights, all havin’ retired ; and I saw two 
men makin’ for the sunk fence, so I just up and rung 
the bell.” 

‘ ‘ A very sensible thing to have done, Rogers, thank 
you.” 

“Thank you, sir,” said Rogers, lighting the re- 
mainder of the candles in the sconces on the wall. 
The housekeeper and other servants now entered, in- 
cluding Macfarlane, the latter with an old sword in his 
hand and his night-cap on his head. 

‘ ‘ Eh, gude Lord, what has eventuated ?’ ’ 

‘ ‘ Burglars have eventuated, ’ ’ said the Vicar, with 
an emphasis on Macfarlane’ s not infelicitous application 
of the verb active. “But put that ugly thing away ; 
we are all friends here.” 

“The miscreants have escaped, eh? But, jest to 
think o’ it !” 

He took off his night-cap, placed the sword in a 
corner of the room, went to the window, looked at the 
safe, exclaiming on the scoundrels all the time. 

‘ ‘ They’ ve taken the notes, ’ ’ said the Vicar, ‘ ‘ and what 
little gold there was, more than a thousand pounds. ’ ’ 

“ Eh, but it’s awfu’ !” said Macfarlane. “ One thou- 
sand pounds ! A king’s ransom, whateffer !” 

“It’s as well they got away, Cleeve; there might 
have been bloodshed.’’ 

242 


THE VICAR 


Then, turning to the servants, he said, “See that 
Miss Woodcote is not disturbed, if she has not been 
awakened ; and all of you get to bed again ; there is 
nothing else to be done.” 

“It is very cold, and beginning to snow ; shall I 
close the shutters ?’ ’ said Cleeve. 

“ By all means,” the Vicar replied. 

* ‘ Permit me, your lordship, ’ ’ said Rogers, closing 
the window and fastening the shutters. “It’s snowing 
hard, your reverence. ’ ’ 

“I’ll gang oot and see if there’s ony signs o’ the 
constables aboot ; Mr. Bradley said he and his men 
would be keepin’ a keen look oot ;’ ’ and Macfarlane 
disappeared, well satisfied with his performance before 
the Vicar, and mumbling to himself, “A thousand 
pounds, — it’s a braw bagfu’ !” 

‘ ‘ What do you say, Cleeve, it is an exceptional 
occasion, shall we have another night-cap? Depend 
upon it, we shall have Bradley here presently. It is 
not likely that we shall get to bed for another hour, 
and when we do, I fear it will hardly be to sleep. I 
don’ t mind the loss of the money so much as the out- 
rage ; it hurts me sorely to think of the peace of Com- 
berton and the sacredness of one’s home being disturbed 
by such knavery. ’ ’ 

“Miss Woodcote was asleep, sir,” said the house- 
keeper. 

“Thank God!” said the Vicar. “I will go and 
speak with her at her door.” 

The Vicar left the room with the housekeeper. 

“Shall I bring the tray, your lordship?” asked 
Rogers. 

“ I think so,” his lordship replied. 

“ A cigar, your lordship?” 

243 


THE VICAR 


“Thank you, I have one,” said Cleeve, taking from 
his pocket a cigar-case, and lighting up, while Rogers 
went for the tray. 

“ If Bradley knew as much as he professed, he should 
have prevented the robbery, or taken the thieves red- 
handed,” he remarked to himself. 

“This way,” Macfarlane was heard saying in the 
passage ; “ it’ s the library. ’ ’ 

‘ ‘ I know that, ’ ’ said Bradley, entering the room 
with a conscious air of importance that irritated Lord 
Cleeve. 

The best and wisest of men have been known to 
allow trifles light as air to disturb them. Bradley had 
the misfortune to irritate Lord Cleeve. He did not 
know why ; nor did his lordship altogether understand 
it. The real truth was that Bradley had discovered his 
love for Miss Woodcote, and Cleeve thought he pre- 
sumed upon it. More than once Bradley, with his 
empty and foolish boast that he was a ladies’ man, had 
looked knowingly at Lord Cleeve, as if there was some- 
thing between them. He was a kind of echo of Lady 
Berwick in this respect, and once had almost re- 
peated her very words. ‘ ‘ If your lordship was only 
younger !” he had remarked in an irrelevant way, 
when Cleeve called at his office to consult him about 
some matter of county business. Bradley was fre- 
quently at Powyke House in connection with Lady 
Berwick’s charities, and it had occurred to Cleeve that 
they talked him over. 

“Oh, good-morning, your lordship, if I may say 
so,” he continued, cheerfully, doffing his cap and 
handing his stick and cap to Rogers. 

“You may say so, and be accurate,” said his lord- 
ship ; ‘ ‘ getting on for one o’ clock, is it not ?’ ’ 

244 


THE VICAR 


“I suppose so,” said Bradley, his exuberance of 
manner chilled. 

“Taken the thieves, eh?” 

“Taken them ?” 

“You forecast the robbery, and claimed that you had 
spotted the men who were to do it?” 

“ Well, not exactly,” said Bradley. “ But I warned 
you. ’ ’ 

‘ ‘ And went over the household locks and bolts and 
bars with the Vicar.” 

‘ ‘ My men are on the track of the robbers ; but the 
snow is unfortunately against them ; all footmarks will 
be obliterated, more’s the pity.” 

“Fate generally seems to take a hand against the 
Comberton division.” 

‘ ‘ How does your lordship mean ?’ ’ 

“Interposes so often at the moment of promised 
success. You would have had the Wulstan forger, if 
he had not slipped out at the back door as you entered 
by the front ; and I see that the London house-breaker, 
who has been confessing so many interesting things, 
says he lodged at old Mother Warren’s, next door to 
your office, for a fortnight w'hile he was planning the 
Moor Hall affair, and often smoked his pipe with you. 
He was supposed to be an antiquary, I think ? Perhaps 
you have not seen the report ?’ ’ 

“Yes, thank you, and it’s true enough; but the 
Vicar himself showed him over the Church, and found 
him very agreeable, I understand. One can’t always 
win, your lordship ; life’s a bit of a lottery. I dessay 
your lordship has had your disappointments. Even the 
course of true love, they say, don’t always run smooth ; 
let alone the duties of a police officer.” 

The worm had turned. Cleeve was saved an angry, 

245 


THE VICAR 


and not too discreet a rejoinder, by the reappearance 
of the Vicar. Ignoring the worm’s daring performance, 
Cleeve merely remarked to the Vicar, “Bradley has 
arrived, but he has not brought the thieves along with 
him.” 

“I dessay the Vicar is glad I haven’t,” said Brad- 
ley, again with a meaning, if not an impertinent glance 
at Lord Cleeve. 

‘ ‘ Oh, very well, ’ ’ said the Vicar, paying little heed 
to Bradley, only anxious to assure Cleeve that Miss 
Woodcote had not been disturbed. 

“ Susannah was asleep,” he said, “and I have urged 
her not to get up. I am very glad she seems to have 
heard nothing ; it would have upset her, poor child. ’ ’ 

“No doubt, no doubt,” said Cleeve. 

‘ ‘ So unfortunately you were right, Bradley, ’ ’ said 
the Vicar. 

“Very sorry,” said Bradley. “May I examine the 
premises ?’ ’ 

‘ ‘ Certainly, Bradley. It will be a case of fastening 
the stable door after the horse has gone, I fear. ’ ’ 

‘ ‘ Generally the case, your reverence ; though I don’ t 
think you’ 11 be likely to have another visit of this kind. 
Have they taken much ?’ ’ 

He was at the safe when he asked the question. 

‘ ‘ Over a thousand pounds, Bradley, ’ ’ said the 
Vicar. 

“The devil ! — I beg your pardon, sir.” 

“It is granted, Bradley,” said the Vicar. “ I sup- 
pose we may credit his Satanic Majesty with the busi- 
ness ; sometimes I think we do him an injustice ; it is 
so easy to credit the Devil with a man’s own special 
and voluntary sin. But we shall get over it, Bradley ; 
happily nobody is hurt ; Lord Cleeve was not on the 
246 


THE VICAR 

spot, nor Macfarlane, or we might have had blood- 
shed.” 

“Nae doot aboot that,” said Macfarlane. “The 
double-faced miscreants !” 

Bradley was making a note in his pocket-book, and 
while Rogers placed the tray of liqueurs and a spirit- 
kettle upon the table, he went on examining the room. 
Macfarlane followed him with watchful respect and 
admiration. 

“Eh, but it’s a great office, to be in the constabu- 
lary, ’ ’ he said. ‘ ‘ I never had the awe of ye that I feel 
the noo.” 

The Vicar once more expressed his satisfaction that 
Susannah had not been disturbed, and wondered what 
Macfarlane would have done with a certain old sword 
if he had encountered the burglars. 

‘ ‘ The shutters were opened from the inside, ’ ’ said 
Bradley, presently ; ‘ ‘ the window is broken. The fast- 
ener was undone from the outside. The shutter-bar 
must have been lifted from within.” 

‘ ‘ Whom do you suspect ?’ ’ asked Cleeve, once more 
in a bantering tone. ‘ ‘ Macfarlane or Rogers ?’ ’ 

“ Macfarlane, eh ?” said the Vicar, smiling. “ The 
old reprobate !’ ’ 

Macfarlane felt like sinking through the floor, but 
braced himself up and laughed. It was a hollow kind 
of laugh. But nobody noted it. 

‘ ‘ Decidedly opened from the inside, ’ ’ said Bradley. 

‘ ‘ The veellans !’ ’ said Macfarlane. ‘ ‘ They must 
ha’e been hidden. Eh, but it’s an awfu’ busi- 
ness !” 

Bradley made notes in his book. The Vicar lighted 
his pipe. Rogers made the grog. 

‘ ‘ Be sparing of the whiskey, Rogers ; but we need 
247 


THE VICAR 


a little fortifying after being broken into and losing our 
sleep and our money. ’ ’ 

“Yes, your reverence,’’ said Rogers. 

“You will take Macfarlane into the housekeeper’s 
room, with my compliments,” the Vicar continued, 
“ and you, too, may fortify a little.” 

“Beg pardon. Vicar,” said Bradley ; “I would like 
to ask them a question or two. ’ ’ 

He was now standing by the organ, with a letter in 
one hand and a candle-lamp in the other. The glass 
of the lamp was broken. The lamp had fallen. 

“ From some one’s hand,” he said, addressing Lord 
Cleeve more particularly, “as if they’ d been startled. 
I would like to ask the servants one or two things be- 
fore they retire. ’ ’ 

‘ ‘ Servants !’ ’ muttered Macfarlane, to himself. 
“What better is he himsel’ ? Servants, and he just a 
thing maintained oot o’ the rates !’ ’ 

“You spoke ?” said Bradley. 

“ Me ?” Macfarlane replied. “ I dinna’ think so.” 

The Vicar smiled at Cleeve, who remarked, “ Brad- 
ley is enjoying himself. ’ ’ 

Bradley asked Rogers and Macfarlane a few ques- 
tions as to the fastening up and other matters, and then 
assented to their leaving the room. Macfarlane was 
glad to be gone, and he never felt before so strong 
a desire for a glass of whiskey. A strong pinch of 
snuff had been a help to him, but he was conscious of a 
sinking and a fear, a tendency to subside into his boots, 
that nothing but the dew of Loch Lomond would cor- 
rect. 

“ Here is a letter, sir,” said Bradley to the Vicar ; 
“it is addressed to Lady Berwick, bears a foreign 
stamp and post-mark. New York, I think, and is open. 

248 


THE VICAR 


It was lying beside the lamp ; as if some one while 
reading it had been startled by a noise at the window, 
dropped the light in fear, or, may be, had come into 
the room to look for it, and was surprised and alarmed 
of a sudden, and ” 

The Vicar had opened the letter, and Cleeve, with a 
serious face, was watching Bradley. 

‘ ‘ Shall I read it ?’ ’ the Vicar asked. 

“Yes, sir,” said Bradley. 

“ It is addressed to Lady Berwick,” said the Vicar, 
laying down his pipe. “ It is in Tom’s handwriting.” 

There was a tremor in the Vicar’s voice. 

“ It might be a clue,” said Bradley. “The house 
was not broken into from the outside. ’ ’ 

“ Lady Berwick dropped it, no doubt,” said Cleeve ; 
adding, as he turned to Bradley, ‘ ‘ she was here while 
you were examining the fastenings with the Vicar ; she 
has been in the habit of receiving letters from Mr. 
Tom Hussingtree ; I don’t see why the Vicar should 
read it.” 

“Nor I, indeed,” said the Vicar. “On second 
thoughts, I see every reason why I should not. It 
may be within police morality to read letters not 
addressed to them, but nothing could justify us in 
taking such a liberty with Lady Berwick’s correspond- 
ence. ’ ’ 

“ And what clue can there possibly be in finding a 
letter her ladyship has evidently dropped ? She will 
probably be very much put about at the loss of it. The 
Vicar can ask her permission to read it in the morning ; 
eh. Vicar?” 

‘ ‘ If Bradley wishes it. ’ ’ 

“I do wish it,” said Bradley. “Indeed, I think 
you should read it now, or hand it back to me.” 

249 


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‘ ‘ Hand it back to you ?’ ’ said Cleeve, angrily. 
“ What do you mean ?” 

“ Only to do my duty,” said Bradley. 

“Your duty, man ! Is it your duty to open Lady 
Berwick’s private letters?” 

‘ ‘ In this case, I believe it is. ’ ’ 

‘ ‘ And I believe it is not, ’ ’ said Cleeve, deliberately 
placing his cigar-case upon the letter, and remarking 
to the Vicar, ‘ ‘ Bradley has conceived some foolish 
theory of the robbery, and ’ ’ 

‘ ‘ I beg your pardon. Lord Cleeve, I have formed no 
theory ; I only wish to get together the facts, and it is 
my duty to do so, and I am going to do it. ’ ’ 

“ It is not your duty to be impertinent, Mr. Super- 
intendent Bradley.” 

“No, no, Cleeve. I don’t think Bradley desires to 
exceed his duty. ’ ’ 

“You have already given us a clue to your extrava- 
gant, not to say unmannerly theory,” said Cleeve. 

* ‘ What do you make out of this fallen lamp ?’ ’ 

‘ ‘ That some one was in the room when the window 
was open.” 

* ‘ Some one, man ! Who ?’ ’ 

“ That is what I’d like to get at.” 

“You say the shutters were opened from the inside. 
Do you make out that the person with the lamp opened 
them ?” 

“ I don’t know ; perhaps not.” 

“ Perhaps, man ! Get your facts together first, and 
think them out afterwards,” said Cleeve, angrily ; for 
he, too, had begun to form a theory. The letter which 
Bradley had found was the letter Lady Berwick wanted 
him to read, and the contents of which she had re- 
peated to him. Had she left it for Susannah to read ? 

250 


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Was it a genuine letter ? Ora forgery ? Was it a let- 
ter to cover this night’s transactions? He began to 
fear that Bradley knew more of Tom Hussingtree’s 
movements than any of them suspected ; and he was 
determined to beat the theory out of him and defeat its 
development, if possible. 

“I desire to get my facts together,” said Bradley. 

* ‘ That letter is one of my facts, and should be left in 
my possession. ’ ’ 

‘ ‘ It will not be left in your possession, ’ ’ said 
Cleeve. 

‘ ‘ My lord, ’ ’ said Bradley, closing his note-book, 
placing it in his breast-pocket, and buttoning his coat, 
‘ ‘ you are the Lord- Lieutenant, and know what magis- 
terial as well as police duties are ; and should do me 
the justice to observe that I have tried to do my 
duty. ’ ’ 

‘ ‘ Possibly, according to your lights ; but there is 
something unfortunate in your manner of trying to do 
your duty.” 

“You have not encouraged me to be over civil,” the 
officer replied, doggedly. “From the first you have 
made light of the business ; you jeered at my warnings, 
you sneer at me now.” 

“Have patience, Bradley. His lordship did not 
mean to hurt your feelings ; perhaps you were a little 
too officious.” 

‘ ‘ Then I humbly beg your pardon, sir, and his lord- 
ship’s, if I am to blame.” 

‘ ‘ Say no more about it, Bradley. I do not say you 
are to blame ; I think you have done your best ; but if 
the Vicar will excuse me saying so, I think we will dis- 
pense with your further services until the morning.” 

“As you think best, Cleeve. Bradley reminds us 
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that you are the Lord-Lieutenant ; we are both magis- 
trates ; and, with due submission, Bradley, I think we 
will adjourn the business, as his lordship purposes, until 
to-morrow. ’ ’ 

‘ ‘ Supposing my men have taken the thieves ?’ ’ said 
Bradley, looking straight at Cleeve. 

“ In that case hold them, of course ; and report to 
the Vicar the moment they are in custody.” 

“Very well, your lordship,” said Bradley, preparing 
to leave the room.” 

“Don’t let us part in anger, Bradley,” said the 
Vicar ; “we have been quite sufficiently perturbed 
without feeling that we may have hurt your amour 
propre. Take a glass of whiskey — eh, Cleeve ?’ ’ 

“ By all means. Sit down, Bradley.” 

“ Thank you,” said Bradley. 

Cleeve rose, and rang the bell. 

‘ ‘ The Superintendent will take a glass of whiskey, 
Rogers,” said the Vicar, when the servant appeared. 

“Yes, sir,” said Rogers. “Scotch, Mr. Bradley?” 

‘ ‘ Thank you, ’ ’ said Bradley. 

The grog was served ; and Bradley, pouring a wine- 
glassful from the decanter which Rogers handed to 
him, lifted the glass with much formality ; and saying, 

‘ ‘ My humble respects to your reverence and to your 
lordship,” emptied it, and filled it anew. 

“ Yours is not pleasant work,” said the Vicar. 

“Not always,” said Bradley ; “but, after all, there’s 
a sort of satisfaction in getting over difficulties. ’ ’ 

He emptied his glass again and rose to his feet, say- 
ing, with a glance at Cleeve, “If we could arrange 
everything as we wish, we should all be the happier. 
Good-night, Vicar. Good-night, Lord Cleeve.” 

‘ ‘ Damn the fellow !’ ’ said Cleeve, between his teeth, 
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as the Vicar rose to see the officer to the door. He 
wished to show Bradley some special attention to make 
up for what he thought was just a little undue harshness 
on the part of Lord Cleeve. 

‘ ‘ Damn his impertinence !’ ’ said Cleeve, to himself. 
It was a very rare thing for Cleeve to swear. 


253 


CHAPTER XXXIII. 


PROBLEMS AND LOVERS. 

‘ ‘ I THOUGHT you despised Hardy and regarded 
Grant Allen as an outrage ?’ ’ said Mr. Orlik Duff, the 
cynic of the Parthenon, smoking his after-dinner cigar 
over a whiskey-and-soda to Netdeship’s coffee and 
cigarette. 

“ Not the men, dear fellow, only two of their books.” 

“ ‘ Tess’ and ‘ The Woman’ ?” 

“Yes ; so I do.” 

‘ ‘ And yet you are taking up the parable ?’ * 

“No,” said Nettleship, nervously; “you mistake 
me. 

“You ask me if I think a woman with a past, a nice 
girl, as you put it, who has consented out of love and 
good nature simply before marriage, might not make 
another man a good and deserving wife ?’ ’ 

‘ ‘ I didn’ t put it in those words, you know, but that 
is the gist of it. ” 

“You are always writing a novel or an article, or 
what you call an essay or some inconsequential trifle of 
that kind, when you sit down to cross-examine me,” 
said Duff. 

“You are so deuced clever and up-to-date,” said 
Nettleship, “ so informing. ” 

“So what? ‘Up-to-date!’ Keep your slang for 
your literature, as you call it, Nettleship. Let us try 
and think that the Parthenon is still a club for gen- 
tlemen.” 


254 


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‘ * There is no knowing to what conclusion a flight 
of fancy may lead one,” said Nettleship, pouring a 
liqueur-glass of Benedictine into his second cup of 
coffee. 

” One to you, Nettleship,” said Duff. ” Go on with 
your novel. You want to be in the movement. Very 
well. Let it be a past worth telling ; and if it is a 
problem, solve it. Don’t beat about the bush, as 
Pinero does. Give it shape. You may in a novel ; 
you may not in a play ; they won’t let you. If they 
would, Pinero’s the man to do it. A nice girl, did you 
say ? Nonsense ; let her be Phrynne in silks and 
frills and trailing petticoats, with a divine smile and a 
generous hand ; a she-devil at heart ; on the surface an 
angel ; and give her for a consort a cultured cross be- 
tween Jabez and Peace. Then go ahead, and tell us 
the history of their two children, a boy and a girl, and 
cut the ground from under that purulent old dodderer, 
Ibsen ! If I was in the business, that is the kind of 
scenario I should work upon.” 

“I tell you, you don’t understand me at all. Duff, 
my dear fellow ; not at all. I am only putting a hypo- 
thetical case ; it is, indeed, the case of a friend of 
mine. She is a well-educated girl, an unsophisticated 
product of an unsophisticated village, outside the 
world, don’t you know. To that rural Paradise 
comes ’ ’ 

‘ ‘ The old story, I know,” interrupted Duff. ‘ ‘ Satan 
in top-boots and scarlet coat, fresh from the hunt, the 
son of the Lord- Lieutenant ; in the old days they would 
call him the young Squire. Poor Terriss would have 
played him to the life. He loves her. She is fresh 
and sweet and peach-and- creamy ; he surfeited with the 
London imitation. They meet on the sly. Hetty Sor- 
255 


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rel, you know, as you would say, old chap ; Hetty 
Sorrel and ” 

“Are you telling this story, or am I?” said Nettle- 
ship. 

“ Let us collaborate,” Duff replied, knocking the ash 
from his cigar and sinking deeper down in his saddle- 
back chair. 

‘ ‘ She had every reason to believe he was a gentle- 
man. He betrayed her. ’ ’ 

‘ ‘ Of course, of course ; they always do. ’ ’ 

“Then damn them !” said Nettleship, with a vicious 
stamp of his foot. “ Fd have them bastinadoed, if we 
lived in a civilised country.” 

“We are devilish barbarous, that’s the truth,” said 
Duff. 

“ Scratch a Russian, they say, and you’ll find a Tar- 
tar ; scratch the average young Englishman, and you’ll 
find an infernal scoundrel,” said Nettleship, moved by 
the imaginative picture of a top-booted, scarlet-coated, 
hunting fellow, fresh from Oxford. 

“ Scratch a Scotchman, and he’ll thank you,” said 
Duff. “ r m a bit of a Scotchman myself, and I know. ’ ’ 

“ You never will be serious,” said Nettleship. 

‘ ‘ Always, dear friend, when you are funny. ’ ’ 

“You think I’m funny now, eh?” 

“Very.” 

“All right, then we’ll say no more ; let us change 
the subject. The tragedy on the Indian frontier is 
funny to you, no doubt ?’ ’ 

“I’m sorry, Nettleship. You have something on 
your mind. Well, out with it, old chap Don’t put 
hypothetical cases. Be honest with me. I have not 
always been a bachelor. Anyhow, you may trust me 
with your secret.” 

256 


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Not mine.” 

“No ?” 

“ My dearest friend’s.” 

“ Very well ; we understand.” 

“ She brought her shame to London.” 

‘ ‘ The right market, ’ ’ said Duff. 

“ Good-bye, old chap !” exclaimed Nettleship, drink- 
ing his coffee and leaving the room without another 
word. 

“Now he has lost his temper,” said Duff. “ I can’t 
help it. Why the devil was he not frank with me? 
The idea that you catch old birds by salting their tails 
is so played out ! Some designing woman has got hold 
of him at last. And who shall escape the designing 
woman ! Waiter !” 

“Yes, sir ?” 

“ Has Mr. Nettleship left the club?” 

“Yes, sir.” 

“Thank you.” 

He had left the club, and returned to his chambers, 
his work, and his lady type-writer. He had basely 
mastered her secret. At least, most of it. Disguising 
himself, he had followed her home on two or three oc- 
casions ; she on her wheel, he in a hansom. She was 
living at Barnet, with a labourer and his wife, two old 
people who eked out a precarious living by letting two 
rooms. It was a clean, wholesome little place. There 
was an infant. It was plain to see that the young 
woman who called herself Mary Bradford was its 
mother. Nettleship looked in at the clean and lace- 
curtained window. He saw the girl going about the 
house, making it neat and tidy, and chatting to the old 
woman, and petting the child that sat by the table in a 
tall chair and cooed at its mother and helped to brighten 
17 257 


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and humanise the cottage. Nettleship took in this scene 
on several occasions, and drank a glass of ale at the ad- 
jacent inn, where the old labourer enjoyed his pipe and 
glass. Nettleship got into conversation with the old 
man, who praised his wife’s young lodger extrava- 
gantly ; ‘ ‘ the kindest young ’ooman he ever ’ad known, 
kindness was ’ardly the word for it ; she was more nor 
even a sister-of-mercy in her ways ; and yet lively, oh, 
bless you, lively w^as ’ardly the word for it; and yet 
went to Church a-Sundays reg’lar.” It was rather 
mean of Nettleship, one is inclined to think, to hint at 
husbands and other ties of womanhood ; but, ‘ ‘ Lor’ 
bless you,” the labourer said, “she ’ain’t got no 
’usband ; she let on at onc’st about ’er position ; truth 
itself. She worn’ t goin’ to come into a’ ’ onest house 
and pretend as she’d a ’usband ! But she be worth the 
best man as ever drew breath, as you may say. A man 
as could deceive such a young ’ooman, well, hell’s too 
good for ’im, that’s what I say.” ” And by heavens, 
you are right !” Nettleship had exclaimed ; and, having 
gleaned a few facts from Mary herself about her native 
village and the inhabitants thereof, with the skill of the 
story-teller he had reckoned up her blighted life, and 
from admiration to pity is a short step on the way to 
love. 

Lizzie Melford had come to like Nettleship, too, 
very much. Mrs. Lightfoot had continually sung his 
praises to her. Nobody had any idea what a good 
man he was, according to Mrs. Lightfoot. And the 
women he might have married ! But he knew them ! 
Mrs. Lightfoot knew them, too : “ abad, wicked lot, my 
dear, the kind of women Mr. Nettleship meets in So- 
ciety. Yet he goes to all the best houses. Do you 
ever look at the cards on his mantel-shelf ?’ ’ No, she 
258 


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said, she did not. “ My dear, the best people in town ; 
more’s the pity, when you thinks of their goin’s on. 
Look at the cases in the papers ; blue blood, too, ladies 
of title a-bettin’ and smokin’ ; but, thank heaven, for 
the sake of our sex, there’s ladies and ladies. Did you 
ever hear of Lady Berwick, now ? Why, of course you 
have. ’ ’ 

Lizzie looked up, with a nervous tremor, afraid that 
Mrs. Lightfoot had discovered her secret. 

‘ ‘ Why, everybody as is anybody knows Lady Ber- 
wick, of Grosvenor Square, and Powyke House in the 
country. What a name, ’ain’t it? Mr. Nettleship 
often goes to Lady Berwick’s in Grosvenor Square, 
and’s often thought o’ goin’ to Powyke, — it is a name 
to be christened with, ’ain’t it? But he hates visitin’, 
do Mr. Nettleship ; prefers a hotel, where he can do as 
he likes. But Lady Berwick, she is the best and noblest 
of the aristocracy he knows ; she visits the poor, goes 
up into the East- End, takes tea with the shadiest of 
’em, gets up concerts and things for the wretches, don’t 
mind what slum she goes into ; and yet her house in 
Grosvenor Square, — ^well. I’ve heard it beats Bucking- 
ham Palace itself. And the parties she gives, all Lon- 
don goes to them. I’ve stood on the pavement, many’s 
the time, to see the swells go in ; all sorts : Royalties 
and Mr. Nettleship, and lords and ladies, and Sir Henry 
Irving and Mr. Tree as plays ‘The Red Lamp,’ and 
Lady Jeune as is a judge’s wife, and the Countess 
Jerome and Lady Marlborough, and Sir Luke Fyldees, 
and Lord Besant and Sir Hall Caine, — leastwise, I’m 
not sure about their titles, but gentlemen what writes, 
like Mr. Nettleship, but not half so well ; in fact, it’s 
nameless, the number of emmerment ladies and gentle- 
men as is received by Lady Berwick. It’s a good 
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thing there is one lady now and then at the top of the 
tree as we women can swear by and honner !’ ’ 

Lizzie was only just getting over her fright at the 
mention of Lady Berwick, when Nettleship returned 
and they resumed work for the day. 

‘ ‘ I think we will leave that chapter, my dear, ’ ’ said 
Nettleship, “and take up a later one ; just an episode.” 

She had long been accustomed to his calling her 
‘ ‘ my dear ’ but he was so respectful with it that she 
rather liked to have him address her familiarly. His 
voice was quite soft for a man’s. There was something 
fascinating, too, in the honesty of his manner, his manly 
view of life — manly in the best sense, his respect for 
women, and his interest in herself. Lizzie often went 
home to Barnet thinking of him all the way, when she 
was not thinking of her child ; and as she spun along 
the Finchley Road, and bounded over the bridge by 
the Welsh Harp and up hill and down dale, her face 
flushed with the exercise, she was most pleasant to be- 
hold ; but one almost wishes Nettleship had not followed 
her to spy upon her humble little home and pluck out 
the heart of its mystery. 

‘ ‘ Are you ready ?’ ’ he asked. 

‘‘Yes, sir.” 

“ Very well ;” and he proceeded to pour out the epi- 
sode, as he called it, with more than his customary vol- 
ubility. 

‘ ‘ ‘ The man had grown to love her. At first it was 
but a benevolent instinct. He was her elder. She 
must have been ten years younger ; and so sweet, with 
such a tender expression, and a heart without guile, he 
was sure of it. It was strange, he had often thought, 
that she would say so little about herself. Whatever 
her secret might be, he was sure it did her no dis- 
260 


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honour. There are instances in the lives of women 
where from one point of view dishonour might be 
charged, while from another the very act that carries 
dishonour would be excusable even in the eyes of 
Diana herself. ’ ’ ’ 

Nettleship felt he was getting a little mixed in his 
similes and modern instances ; but he could correct 
these things later, if need be. Lizzie followed him with 
a quick pencil, and in keeping up with his pace lost 
some of the meaningness of his words ; but she had 
often felt that certain incidents and episodes of his 
romance might have applied to herself, if she had 
chosen to put the cap on. 

‘ ‘ ‘ One day he determined to find out her secret ; 
he was base enough to follow her. She lived outside 
the great town ; far away in a little cottage, clean and 
neat, a cottage that is typical of the best characteristics 
of the British labourer. And there he saw her secret ; 
saw it with his own eyes, a secret that could not be hid- 
den. It was an infant !” 

Nettleship paused. Lizzie finished the sentence with 
difficulty. Her heart beat fast and furious ; but she 
sat still upon her chair, her feet hard pressed against 
the floor. 

‘ ‘ ‘ Again and again he saw her in her humble home, 
and heard reports of her from her neighbours. Every- 
thing confirmed his own good opinion. Husband? 
No, she had no husband ; she had been betrayed ; she 
had fled from home and friends to hide her shame. 
Did she still love the man who had done her that great 
wrong ? There are women who cherish the hand that 
smites them. There are women who forgive the seducer 
who has practised upon their generosity. There are 
women who love through all sins and dangers and 
261 


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crimes. “ Did she love that man still ?” he asked him- 
self, this other who had tracked her to her place of rest 
and retreat, not out of idle curiosity, but because he 
loved her, because he felt he could not live without her. 
‘ ‘ ‘ Did she love her betrayer ?’ ’ ’ 

Lizzie had laid down her pencil. Nettleship did not 
see her. He was pacing the room. Presently he 
turned to look at her. She was pale to the lips, her 
eyes fixed on him. 

‘ ‘ My dear child !’ ’ he exclaimed, taking her hand. 
“ My dear Mary !” 

“Oh, Mr. Nettleship !” she said. 

“ Have you guessed?” he asked, his breath coming 
quickly ; ‘ ‘ have you guessed ?’ ’ 

“Yes,” she said, with a great sigh. 

‘ ‘ And will you be my wife ?’ ’ 

“ Oh, if I dared say Yes !” 

“ Say it ! say it, my child ! Say it, and I will make 
the world a happier place than you have ever known it. 
I love you, — honestly, dearly, passionately !” 

“Can you forget the past?” she said, tears giving 
her relief. ‘ ‘ Can you forgive what you saw at Barnet ?’ ' 

“My love !” he said, and took her into his arms ; 

‘ ‘ we will live in the future. ’ ’ 


262 


CHAPTER XXXIV. 


SUSANNAH CROSS-EXAMINES LADY BERWICK. 

Susannah had not been quite herself since the 
burglary. The Vicar had noticed the change in her, 
with sorrow and something of bewilderment. When- 
ever Bradley had called she had been anxious and 
troubled. He had mentioned this to Lord Cleeve, 
who appeared to have what the Vicar could not help 
thinking was a rather unworthy grudge against the 
officer. “But,” as the clergyman argued to himself, 
‘ ‘ if Cleeve had not some little weaknesses, he would be 
too perfect a character ; and Bradley was undoubtedly 
a stupid fellow to give his lordship any cause of anger, 
so good and kindly a fellow, and so considerate of the 
feelings of the humblest.” 

“ No, dear,” Susannah said, “ there is really nothing 
the matter with me ; a little triste^ as Lady Berwick 
says, that is all. It may be the weather ; and you 
yourself are always rather sad at Christmas-time and 
New Year.” 

“But, my love, Christmas and New Year are past, 
and we may soon be looking for the Spring, and then 
to our visit to London.” 

“I sometimes wish we were not going to town,” 
she said. 

“Doctor Walker says you need change, my love, 
and he actually advises a season in London. Besides, 
Lady Berwick has our promise. ’ ’ 

“ Yes, and of course we must not disappoint her.” 

263 


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‘ ‘ Lord Cleeve starts for his trip round the world in 
May.’^ 

“ He is really going, then?’* 

“Oh, yes.” 

“ He has only just returned from Egypt.” 

“ Ah, my dear child, if events had turned out differ- 
ently from the crooked road they have taken, who 
knows, we might all have been fellow-travellers. I 
would have liked to see Egypt. ’ ’ 

‘ ‘ I seem to have unsettled everybody, ’ ’ she said ; 
“and nothing could have been further from my de- 
sire.” 

“ My darling!” was all the Vicar could say in reply. 

‘ ‘ Don’ t let us drift back again to that old sad sub- 
ject, my dear,” she said. “I know it distresses 
you.” 

“You are looking for Tom’s return,” the Vicar 
answered, however, taking up the subject afresh. ‘ ‘ It 
is his letter to Lady Benvdck that is preying upon your 
mind ; you dread his home-coming ; so do I, Susannah, 
so do 1.” 

‘ ‘ Is Lord Cleeve going to pay us a visit before he 
leaves England ?’ ’ she asked. 

“Oh, yes,” he said, “and he may travel to town 
with us, when we go up to Lady Berwick’s reception.” 

“ I am glad of that,” she said, and sighed. 

‘ ‘ And yet you say so with a sigh, my love. ’ ’ 

“ It is all so sad, is it not? Your son an exile. Lord 
Cleeve going to the uttermost parts of the earth ; you 
and I, dear, left all alone, and you unhappy. And all, 
as it seems, on my account. You have had recent news 
of Tom?” 

“Yes ; news that, under other circumstances, would 
be good news, but since it will influence you, alas, in 
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the direction that is most distasteful to me, I could 
almost find in my heart to regret it. Lady Berwick has 
had another letter. From the day Macfarlane left him 
and his evil companion, the lad seems to have turned 
over a new leaf. My relative at Brooklyn has influ- 
enced him for the better, and through his introduction, 
Tom has engaged in an occupation in which he has 
been most successful ; something in the way of honest 
commerce, in which his education has been useful to 
him : and he talks of coming home early in the Spring. 
You are not listening.” 

‘‘Yes, dear, I am,” she answered, in some con- 
fusion. 

‘ ‘ I know in your heart you do not love him ; I am 
sure of it : and yet you will sacrifice yourself to your 
word. Was ever an unfortunate father in so wretched 
and perplexing a position, racked by the knowledge of 
his son’s unworthiness, in a darker and more terrible 
way than you can imagine ; a secret, my dear, an 
awful secret, that I cannot, dare not tell you. And 
yet ’ ’ 

‘ ‘ My dear guardian, what secret ?’ ’ she exclaimed, 
turning pale. 

‘‘You know what it is to bear a burden of that kind ; 
you kept a secret from me, dear ’ ’ 

“Yes, but ” 

‘ ‘ I know, I know ; and Lady Berwick, in the mis- 
taken kindness of her heart, thought you right. ’ ’ 

‘ ‘ What secret do you mean ?’ ’ 

“The secret of your engagement to my unhappy, 
my miserable son.” 

“ Oh !” said Susannah, with a sigh of relief. 

“There is no other secret?” said the Vicar, with a 
strong note of interrogation in his voice and manner. 

265 


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“Yes,” she answered, her face flushing. “You said 
you had a secret. ’ ’ 

‘ ‘ I may not tell you. Lord Cleeve thinks it would 
not be right. ’ ’ 

‘ ‘ Lord Cleeve knows it ?’ ’ 

“Yes.” 

‘ ‘ And he is of opinion that you should not share it 
with me ?’ ’ 

“Yes.” 

‘ ‘ Whom does it most particularly concern ?’ ’ 

“You in particular ; next to you, all of us.” 

‘ ‘ And you may not tell me ?’ ’ 

“Not now; mayhap never. It implicates Tom, 
though he might redeem his sin.” 

“Might he? How ? Oh, tell me how !” 

“ Not now, dear, not now.” 

“Oh, my dear Vicar, my second father, you must 
tell me ! You don’t know what it may mean to me, to 
him, to you !” 

“ I will consult Lord Cleeve once more.” 

“ Tell me one thing. Is it about the burglary?” 

“ Burglary, my love? No !” 

“ Thank God !” she exclaimed, and covered her face 
with her hands. 

“Why, my dear, what makes you think of the 
burglary ? I declare, I had almost forgotten all about 
it. But Tom has committed a sin I can never forget 
or forgive, unless he should do the person justice. It 
may be that he has done so ; who knows ? It is in 
Lord Cleeve’ s kind heart to think so.” And secretly 
the Vicar was hoping that in the end Tom would come 
home, with Lizzie Melford as his wife. She had been 
traced to London, and had disappeared about the same 
time that Tom had left for America ; though Macfar- 
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THE VICAR 


lane, sounded in that direction, had not once risen to 
the suggestion. It might be, however, that Macfarlane 
was pledged to secrecy. 

“We seem to be playing at cross-purposes,” Susan- 
nah said to Lady Berwick, the day following this con- 
versation, having made a special visit to Powyke to try 
and unravel the puzzle of the Vicar’s strange remarks ; 
and Lady Berwick found that Susannah, in trouble and 
anxiety, with a deadly secret of her own to keep in 
protecting the honoured name of Hussingtree and 
sparing the Vicar the terrible knowledge of his son’s 
awful delinquency, was a different woman to deal with 
from the girl she had entrapped into an engagement 
with Tom ; a girl who had become a woman of resource 
and firmness, one who had suffered and was strong. 

“You have a secret you are keeping from the Vicar 
and me, ’ ’ she said. 

‘ ‘ My dear Susannah !’ ’ 

“ Yes, that is what I mean. You are not frank with 
us.” 

‘ ‘ My dear Susannah !’ ’ 

“ I know', dear Lady Berwick, that you love me and 
are our dear neighbour and friend ; but I am very 
miserable. What is this strange secret about Tom 
Hussingtree ?” 

“ I know of none.” 

‘ ‘ What is this other letter you have received from 
him ?” 

“Here it is, my love,” she said, going to her desk 
and placing a letter in Susannah’s hand. It was from 
Tom to Lady Berwick. He would have liked, he said, 
to write to Susannah ; but she -might not receive it ; 
and, moreover, he thought it more honourable not to 
267 


THE VICAR 


write to her under the circumstances ; he would achieve 
success first, and come home and claim the reward that 
had been promised him. Even the Vicar could not 
refuse to take the hand of the penitent, and that would 
be his attitude — “penitent, and in the best sense, don’t 
you know, my dear Lady Berwick,” he went on, 

‘ ‘ having turned over the new leaf, and with the favour 
of Fortune, and, I may surely say, with the approval 
of the Almighty, a changed man, my dear Lady Ber- 
wick, changed in mind, body, and estate, and with 
hard-earned money in my purse and a business to re- 
turn to, in case the Vicar is still obdurate ; but with my 
dear, sweet Susannah as my bride. ’ ’ 

Susannah read the letter impatiently. The reader 
will guess the source of its inspiration, — Jim Renshaw. 
Lady Berwick did not know this ; nor that Tom had 
really returned. On this point Susannah satisfied her- 
self that this was her own particular and burning secret. 

‘ ‘ Where did this come from ?’ ’ she asked, handing 
back the letter. 

“ From New York.” 

“You know that, of course.” 

“ Only from the post-mark. It bore the same indi- 
cation of origin as the other.” 

“The one I dropped in the library the night of the 
burglary ?’ ’ 

“Yes, and about which the man Bradley was so 
curious ; I wonder why ?’ ’ 

“Oh, Lady Berwick, I am so unhappy!” said 
Susannah, and sank down upon the very seat where 
Tom had made daring love to her by order of the 
scheming widow. 

‘ ‘ I am sure you are ; but it need not make you 
unkind to me, love. ’ ’ 


268 


THE VICAR 


“No, no, it need not. Pray forgive me. I some- 
times wish I had never been born. ’ ’ 

“ Nay, sweetheart,” the widow replied, sitting down 
by her side and embracing her; “don’t say that. 
There are many happy days in store for you yet.” 

‘ ‘ Oh, no, no !’ ’ said ^he girl. ‘ ‘ But, oh, why do you 
seem to hold me so strongly to this engagement ?’ ’ 

Susannah suddenly dried her eyes, and rose to her 
feet. 

‘ ‘ My love ! what do you mean ?’ ’ 

‘ ‘ Why do you appear to meet me at every turn with 
my promise, and Tom’s hopes and future, and all that ? 
Why do you never seem to give me a chance to recon- 
sider?” 

“My love !” 

“You could surely have had no motive in bringing 
us together that day and urging his claims upon me, 
claims that were unreal and untrue ! Oh, Lady Ber- 
wick, why? Why?” 

‘ ‘ Susannah, dearest, you are beside yourself. Mo- 
tive? What other than your happiness, his happi- 
ness !” 

‘ ‘ And why does he write to you ? And not to me ? 
And why do you hint cruel things of Lord Cleeve ? 
Oh, don’t let me doubt you ! The world is so dark, as 
it is, and I begin to doubt everything and everybody. 
Oh, do you really think these letters came from New 
York?” 

“ My darling, be calm. You are not well. I love 
you better than I ever loved my own child ; and I un- 
derstand what your feelings are now ; you are a little 
hysterical, and want change of scene, change of air. 
Dr. Walker says you are run down. Oh, my love, 
don’t be angry with me ; you break my heart !” 

269 


THE VICAR 


** If you only knew what I know,” said the girl, de- 
spairingly. ‘ ‘ They say women cannot be true to each 
other. Oh, Lady Berwick, you are my friend ?’ ’ 

“ My sweetheart ! You are quite feverish. Let me 
bring you to my room. Come and lie down a little. 
You shall have a nice cup of tea, and I will drive you 
home and take luncheon at the Vicarage, if you will 
have me ; if you don’t think I am your enemy, — I, 
who would make any sacrifice for your happiness, and 
the dear Vicar’s. Why, my love, what else have I to 
live for, but you three, — Tom, you, and the Vicar ! 
Nay, if you do not love Tom any more, we must try 
and break off the match ; anything, rather than you 
and I and the Vicar should not be friends and love 
each other. And Tom? Oh, well, there are plenty 
of girls who will only be too glad to console him. 
Come, my love. ’ ’ 

Susannah, having no more to say, and evidently 
nothing to learn from her ladyship, permitted herself 
to be led to her ladyship’s chamber, where there were 
salts and scents and restoratives and confections, and 
where after a time Susannah became calm and responded 
to the widow’s embraces. And they went to the Vicar- 
age in time for luncheon ; and the Vicar declared, when 
it was over and he had seen Lady Berwick to her car- 
riage, that her ladyship’s visit had cheered him might- 
ily, and that her naturally high spirits were the out- 
come of her goodness of heart and the continual practice 
of benevolence, — “the most generous parishioner any 
clergyman could ever have been blessed with.” 

As the days drew out and signs of Spring came back 
again to the hills and dales and gardens of Comberton- 
cum-Besford, and nothing further happened to distress 
270 


THE VICAR 


her, Tom making no sign, and Lord Cleeve calling 
now and then at the Vicarage, Susannah appeared to 
be recovering her good health and normally cheerful 
spirits. Shortly before the time fixed for the visit to 
town, Cleeve accepted the Vicar’s invitation to stay a 
short time in the old happy quarters. One day they 
all three drove over to Cleeve House, and spent the 
day there. Cleeve showed them his Egyptian trophies, 
and Susannah took the deepest interest in them, and 
Cleeve was very happy. If the engagement with Tom 
should lapse, as he encouraged himself to think it 
would, he might hope to return from his long proposed 
journey with a good chance of success. He would be 
continually writing to the Vicar. Hussingtree would 
keep him well informed. With his permission, if op- 
portunity occurred, he would write to Susannah herself. 
It might be that, after all, Tom would be induced to 
marry Lizzie Melford. From inquiries he had made 
in various directions, outside of Bradley, he was inclined 
to believe that, after all, the girl had followed Tom to 
America. Anyhow, it was best he should go away. 
If Tom came back, it was best ; if he stayed away, it 
was best ; and yet, as he looked at the girl and listened 
to her voice, he felt that he was taking upon himself a 
kind of task, a penance ; and for what ? It was borne 
in upon him at times that he was too punctilious in 
regarding the engagement of the Vicar’s son as an 
insuperable objection to his own suit. He had never, 
since that miserable disclosure, addressed Susannah 
even in terms of cordial friendship ; nor had she, he 
was bound to admit, encouraged him to do so ; though 
on this visit to Cleeve she had been more than neigh- 
bourly in her admiration of the house and in her anxiety 
to have him relate his adventures and tell her all about 
271 


THE VICAR 


the things he had brought home, several of which he 
had begged the Vicar to accept, always selecting any 
souvenir of his travels that Susannah had most admired. 

And so the days passed away, amidst hopes and 
fears, and there were primroses in the hedges and lilacs 
by the way, and budding fruit trees, and larks singing 
overhead, as the Vicar and Susannah drove through 
Comberton and along the leafy lanes to Shrub Hill, 
en route for the Vicar s lodgings of years ago on Half 
Moon Street. 


272 


CHAPTER XXXV. 


THE VISIT TO LONDON. 

“Nothing suits me so well as black moir^ and 
diamonds, ’ ’ said Lady Berwick, with an air of triumph, 
as she posed before a full-length mirror between the 
two daintily draped windows of the smaller of the two 
drawing-rooms in Grosvenor Square. 

She called it her own little room, though it was 
spacious and usually open to every visitor. In the 
estimation of friends it was her business room. It 
was here that she kept up the same idea of enterprise 
and activity in the public interest that obtained at 
Powyke. Here indeed was a desk almost duplicating 
the one that was crowded with papers and accounts 
and charitable appeals that we wot of in the country 
drawing-room. After the manner of the establishment 
at Powyke, the Grosvenor Square house was furnished 
with an eye to artistic effect, not. forgetting the ‘ ‘ lady- 
like litter, ’ ’ as one of her admirers called it, that should 
always distinguish a woman’s apartments ; and Lady 
Berwick made a point of femininity. She had no 
sympathy with short hair and narrow skirts, with mas- 
culine jackets and masculine occupations that some 
women affect. She was much too clever for that, 
though she was not quite so clever as she thought. 

‘ ‘ I have a presentiment that this is going to be an 
eventful night,’’ she said, rearranging some trifling 
detail of lace or ribbon, and stepping back from the 
mirror the better to judge of the general effect of her 
i8 273 


THE VICAR 


dress as an artist will step back a few paces from his 
easel. In the more real study, it must be said that 
Lady Berwick had every reason to be content. If she 
had used any artificial aid to heighten the beauty of 
her face, it had been used with a dexterous cunning. 
She was one of those women, however, who, having 
anything like a complexion at all, are content with 
what Nature has given them. Lady Berwick had cul- 
tivated her good looks with wholesome exercise and 
plenty of fresh air. She was the picture of good 
health, good temper, and prosperity ; but there was a 
certain suggestion of watchfulness in the expression 
of her face that spoke more of physical beauty than 
nobility of nature or tenderness of heart. To the care- 
less and unobservant, however, she played the part 
of the generous hostess, the philanthropic lady of the 
manor, the good friend and the kindly woman of the 
world to perfection. The world often takes a woman 
for what she pretends to be. 

There was a knock at the door. Lady Berwick sat 
down near her desk and opened the latest Qitarterly 
Review. There entered Keziah, alone. Lady Ber- 
wick expected her to usher in some intimate friend, for 
it was as yet too early for even the first guests of the 
evening. 

‘ ‘ I thought it might have been Lord Cleeve. He 
said he would come very early, because he could not 
stay very late. And his manner seemed strange. 
‘Another engagement?’ I asked; and he said, ‘Yes, 
with railway trains and ocean steamers.’ I wonder 
what is in the wind ? Did his lordship say anything 
more than ordinary when he called the other day ?’ ’ 

“No, my lady,’’ said Keziah. 

“He is quite confidential with you, Keziah ; often 
274 


THE VICAR 

has an odd parting observation to make as he 
leaves. ’ ’ 

“ His lordship is affability itself, my lady, and I 
nearly always ask him how he thinks your .ladyship 
is looking.” 

“Yes?” 

“‘Charming, Keziah,’ he will say; and on one 
occasion he added, ‘ as the Vicar says. ’ ’ ’ 

“Yes? I don’t quite understand.” 

“Meant that he was of the same opinion,” said 
Keziah. “It’s the Vicar’s constant remark, my lady, 
how charming you are. ’ ’ 

‘ ‘ Really ! And Lord Cleeve, he ’ ’ 

“Said it just hearty like, as if he envied the 
Vicar having said the good thing before him ; yes, 
indeed. But, my lady, who do you think has just 
come ?’ ’ 

“ Don’t ask me conundrums, Keziah.” 

“ My brither David’s in the housekeeper’s room.” 

‘ ‘ Bring him here. I would like to see him. ’ ’ 

‘ ‘ Here, my lady, and he’ s sae shy ?’ ’ 

“Here? Why, yes, of course. He’s a better man 
than many I have seen here.” 

‘ ‘ Thank you for David, my lady ; though I fear he 
doesn’t deserve such consideration.” 

“ I know you never did quite approve of David.” 

“I’m willing to allow he’s improved wi’ travel.” 

“ No doubt ; and you too, Keziah, and your new cap 
becomes you ; you look very well indeed ; that dull- 
gold bit of ribbon suits your complexion. Go and 
bring Macfarlane ; let him come by the back stair.” 

Keziah smiled, and went off .by her ladyship’s pri- 
vate door. 

“ Come up with the Vicar and Susannah, of course,” 

275 


THE VICAR' 


said Lady Berwick to herself. ‘ ‘ I wonder what the 
Vicar will think of my reception ; too Bohemian, I 
fear, for his sense of the proprieties ; he must be cured 
of that.” 

David’s was one of those easy consciences that 
nothing disturbed for more than five minutes. The 
proverb of the water and the duck’s back applied 
equally well to his temperament. He was altogether 
an irresponsible person. His memory served him, too, 
as perhaps a better trained memory should. It only 
permanently registered agreeable incidents. Macfar- 
lane had entirely forgotten his share in the burglary at 
the Vicarage. It might have never been, except for 
the pleasure he took in baiting Superintendent Bradley 
on the inefficiency of his department in the public ser- 
vice. The affair had not cast the smallest shadow upon 
David’s life and habits. On the contrary, it was a 
secret satisfaction to him that Tom had been able to fill 
his empty pockets from his father’s safe. Who had 
more right ? But Bradley was a shrewder man than 
David imagined. Though he never once suspected that 
Macfarlane knew anything of the robbery, he continu- 
ally pondered the mystery of the letter and the candle- 
lamp that were found lying together by the organ. 
Miss Woodcote’s firm denial of all knowledge of either 
only convinced Bradley the more that she could give 
valuable information if she was so disposed, and that 
there was only one reason why she kept it back ; which 
reason he had kept to himself, though he had carefully 
followed up the clue it suggested. 

‘ ‘ Oh, your boots are all right, you wiped them 
downstairs,” Keziah was heard saying at the door. 

‘ ‘ Come along ;’ ’ and Macfarlane made his appearance 
and was less embarrassed than usual, in her ladyship’s 
276 


THE VICAR 


presence, though he still swung his hat in his hand, in 
an uncertain nervous way. 

Come in, Macfarlane, ’ ’ said her ladyship, gra- 
ciously. 

“Eh, there’s nae gude in gangin’ tae heaven wi’ sic’ 
a place on airth !’ ’ he said ; for Keziah had warned him 
to say something pleasant and complimentary. 

“You are quite a courtier, Macfarlane.’’ 

“Nae, I’m ainly what they just ca’ a head man and 
bottlewasher, and not much at that. But what may ye 
call a court’ er, my lady ?’ ’ 

“One who pays in admiration more than is due,’’ 
said her ladyship, with a smile of satisfaction at the 
point and promptness of her repartee. 

Macfarlane, dressed in his best manner and with all 
the airs of a traveller, had superintended the packing 
for town ; looked after the luggage, disputed the 
charges for extra weight, both at Shrub Hill and Pad- 
dington ; secured the best compartment for the Vicar 
and Miss Woodcote, and a third-class seat for himself 
as near their carriage as possible ; and at Oxford had 
informed the Vicar that there would be time for refresh- 
ment. In a vague kind of way, without remembering 
his great offence, it. seemed to Macfarlane that he was 
making up to the Vicar for some short-coming ; and the 
Vicar was very pleased with him. Macfarlane plumed 
himself with undisguised self-satisfaction when he had 
seen the Vicar and Susannah into the brougham that 
had been ordered for them and was superintending the 
loading of a four-wheeler with the baggage. He stood 
with his arms folded across his breast, now and then 
unfolding them to take a capacious pinch of snuff, like 
a rural Napoleon of uncertain age, legs astride, tall 
silk hat on the back of his head, black plush waistcoat, 
277 


THE VICAR 


double-breasted, an old-fashioned satin stock, and a 
black coat, with pockets at the side and bulging with 
handkerchiefs, gloves, luncheon-box, and flask, a kind 
of game-keeper’s jacket. He looked from under his 
bushy eye-brows out of his two little eyes (too close 
together to be honest), and pursed up his mouth and 
wrinkled his brows with the intensity of — well, a little 
Napoleon ; and yet, in the presence of Lady Berwick 
he was the sycophant we have seen, with just a touch 
on occasion of Scotch independence and pride. He 
was a queer mixture ; crooked, but in many ways very 
human. 

“ There’s nae much harm in that, my lady. I dinna’ 
mind the admiration ; it’s the bawbees I’d nae be in- 
clined to pay mair than’s due.” 

“Well, come in; don’t stand there like a half- 
hatched chick,” said Keziah, at his elbow, for Macfar- 
lane still hovered in the doorway, his eyes wandering 
from the pictures on the walls to the picture in black 
moir4 and diamonds. 

“ Eh, but I seem to want the path,” he said, look- 
ing down upon the lovely carpet. ‘ ‘ I seem to be a 
gardener, carefu’ aboot walking over the flower-beds. ’ ’ 

‘ ‘ Nonsense, Macfarlane, ’ ’ said her ladyship. ‘ ‘ There 
is no more beautiful house than the Vicar’s.” 

“Ye may cage a rook in a nightingale’s cage, my 
lady, but it’s a rook a’ the same. Take a seat ? Thank 
ye, my lady,” and he sat upon the nearest chair a trifle 
confused as to the effect of his simile of the rook and 
the nightingale and anxious to bring his preliminary 
efforts at something complimentary to a close. 

“Well, now tell me the news of Comberton, the 
Vicarage, and everything, not forgetting Powyke, 
Cleeve, and the county generally. ’ ’ 

278 


THE VICAR 


“That’s what they ca’ a large order, my lady. I 
dinna’ ken that I’m quite equal tae it. The police 
ha’ e na’ yet found oot whae commeetted the burglary, 
though they’re forever speerin’ aboot. They’re puir 
bodies whatefier, and verra’ fond o’ the Veecar’s whas- 
key. ’ ’ 

‘ ‘ And how is Comberton generally ?’ ’ 

“ Weel, I’m jest thinkin’ they’re mair smilin’ and 
happy i’ their minds sin’ the Secreetary o’ Dorcas were 
laid up wi’ the lumbago. Eh, but I couldna’ help 
thinkin’ o’ yer ladyship when I first hear’ d o’ it, and I 
said to mysel’, eh, but I’d jest like tae gang and iron 
her back !’ ’ 

“ I don’t wonder at their being more smiling, my 
lady ; they have to read three tracts to get as many 
yards of flannel.’’ 

“ I never knew that,’’ said her ladyship. “Is it 
really true, Keziah ?’ ’ 

“It’s ower true, my lady,’’ said Macfarlane. “ She 
worries them mair aboot the next world than she com- 
forts them in this. But talkin’ o’ meenistrations ’’ 

He dropped his voice and looked round the room. 

‘ ‘ I want tae ken a thing that may happen tae be a 
secret. ’ ’ 

“Have no fear, Macfarlane,” said her ladyship; 
“ this place is as secret as Downing Street.” 

“Dooning Street! I ha’e bear’d o’ the place. 
There’s a Foreign Meenister there ! I reckon he 
preaches i’ some outlandish language or ither ; though 
I hardly think it richt tae mak’ releegion a secret. ’ ’ 

“There are many who do, Macfarlane ; but what is 
your secret ?’ ’ 

“ Nae, nae, it isna’ mine. But is the Veecar come 
up tae be made a beeshop, or anythin’ ?’ ’ 

279 


THE VICAR 


“ Bless me, no, not that I am aware of ! Why?” 

“ Weel, when we were packin’ up he had sic’ a pile 
o’ sermons put intil his trunk that one might be justi- 
fied in thinkin’ he’d gotten tae preach the de’il oot o’ 
a victorious airmy !” 

Lady Berwick laughed heartily, but Keziah detected 
the chuckle of mischief that made just a little jar in it. 
Indeed, Lady Berwick’s laugh was not exactly mirthful 
at any time. 

“When did Lord Cleeve leave the Vicarage?” she 
asked, turning for a moment to look at a packet of 
papers, tied With red silk, on her pretty old Chippen- 
dale desk. 

“Weel, his lairdship should ha’e come up wi’ the 
Veecar ; but somehow there’s been a kind o’ a strange- 
ness i’ the house o’ late. His lairdship has nae always 
been learnin’ his lessons wi’ Miss Woodcote i’ the 
library. ’ ’ 

Lady Berwick answered without looking at him, her 
interest keenly awakened, though she affected indiffer- 
ence to the subject of all others that she desired Mac- 
farlane to talk about. 

“Indeed, really?” she said. 

“It’s verra’ likely they’ve learned the lot, for they 
certainly were deep i’ the study o’ books and papers at 
a’ hours o’ the day.” 

“With the Vicar?” 

“ Nae ; jest wi’ themsel’s, whateffer.” 

“In the library?” 

“Aye.” 

‘ ‘ And have they been riding together ?’ ’ 

“ Aye ; they jest scandalised the pious and the aged 
by ridin’ the new-fangled inventions o’ the de’il they 
ca’ ‘ bikes, ’ tae see the Secreteary o’ Dorcas when she 
280 


THE VICAR 


was doon wi’ the lumbago. Awfu’ inventions ! I tried 
his lairdship’s, wi’ the sanction o’ his man, and it was 
jest as if I’d been struck by lightnin’ ; it’s lucky I came 
doon on my head ! Otherwise I might ha’e been laid 
up wi’ broken bones.” 

‘ ‘ But you always are lucky, Macfarlane ; your Ameri- 
can adventures prove that. Miss Woodcote rides very 
well, does she not ?’ ’ 

“She jest appears tae fly along the road. I’m 
thinkin’ she might flee an angel for a wager, like the 
man i’ the story, if she’d a mind tae ; and I’d back her 
fora’ I’m worth.” 

“You would not dare to tell the Vicar,” said her 
ladyship, laughing, while Keziah for a moment thought, 
after all, that David was not such a fool as he looked. 
David’s wizened face became more than ever wrinkled 
about the eyes, and a faint chuckle escaped his hard 
lips, as he remarked, “Nae, but I dinna’ think the 
Veecar wad mind ; for I ha’e bear’d him and his laird- 
ship crack a mickle power o’ gude jokes sittin’ by the 
library fire.” 

“For example?” suggested Lady Berwick, looking 
at the quaint figure in its gaiters, broad-cloth jacket, and 
flowered waistcoat. 

“Nae; I wouldna’ care tae tell what the Veecar 
may ha’ e considered private ; not that I mightna’ tell 
what passed, on the housetops, for what ’airm there 
might be in a few cleerical anecdotes. ’ ’ And Macfar- 
lane tightened his lips, as much as to infer that not even 
superior powers to those of Lady Berwick would induce 
him to repeat conversations he had heard while on duty 
in the sanctum of his master and a Vicar of the Church. 

” Who saw Lord Cleeve off when he left the Vicar- 
age?” 


281 


THE VICAR 


“Weel, a body canna’ help bein’ sick, and Miss 
Woodcote had a heedache. Jest as he was leavin’, the 
maid brought him a wee bit note, an’ it seemed tae me 
as if it would tak’ the buttons off his waistcoat, he 
sighed sae when he read it !” 

Keziah, who was now standing near her mistress, 
ventured to say in a low voice, “That affair’s at an 
end.” 

“Hush !” said her ladyship. 

“The victory’s yours. I always said so.” 

“ Hush ! You speak as you hope.” 

“As I know,” said Keziah. 

“Then they did not seem happy together, Lord 
Cleeve and Miss Woodcote?” said her ladyship, turn- 
ing from Keziah and her papers to Macfarlane. 

“ Nae ; indeed they looked verra’ sad. But may be 
the Secreetary o’ Dorcas had been admeenisterin’ some 
consolation tae them, puir bodies ! I ken when she 
consoled me for my loss I had a verra’ bad heedache 
the next morning whateffer !” 

‘ ‘ Is that the usual effect of consolation, Macfar- 
lane?” asked her ladyship, patiently giving him time 
for further disclosures. 

“ Weel, may be it were the whaskey I was obleeged 
tae tak’ jest tae get my speerits up agen, ’ ’ he answered, 
feeling that her ladyship for some reason or other was 
willing that he should speak with a certain familiarity. 
He supposed it was on account of his travels. Since 
his return from America he had been conscious of a 
greater amount of respect being shown to him at Com- 
berton, though he was but a servant in the Vicar’s 
household, — a privileged one, nevertheless, as he did 
not forget to remind the others, both at the Farm and 
the Vicarage. 


282 


THE VICAR 


Further opportunity to show off his wit and air his 
travelled manners was cut short by the entrance of a 
footman, preceding two more important visitors. 

“The Reverend the Vicar of Comberton-cum-Bes- 
ford and Miss Woodcote,” said the attendant, flinging 
open the heavy mahogany door. 

Her ladyship rose to receive her visitors, Macfarlane 
picked up his hat and brushed the nap with his sleeve, 
prior to being hurried back by Keziah to the house- 
keeper’s room, where she had left him to address a 
much less interested auditor than Lady Berwick. 


283 


CHAPTER XXXVI. 


OF A CERTAIN RECEPTION IN GROSVENOR SQUARE. 

“ Welcome, my dear Susannah ! Welcome, Vicar, 
a thousand times !’ ’ said Lady Berwick, in her heartiest 
manner, first kissing Susannah and then taking the 
Vicar’ s hand. He bent over her white kid glove with 
an air of old-world gallantry. The glove extended 
above the elbow of her ladyship’s well-shaped arm, and 
a diamond bangle sparkled on her wrist. 

“We thank you. Lady Berwick,” said the Vicar. 
“ Unfortunately we were delayed, through some slight 
mistake of Macfarlane’s about the hour at which the 
carriage should be ordered. ’ ’ 

“ Oh, but, dear friend, you are very early.” 

‘ ‘ Then I am glad, for I was about to apologise for 
being late.” 

“No one arrives at the appointed hour,” said her 
ladyship. “ Come and sit by me. Sue, my love.” 

“Tut ! tut !” said the Vicar. “There is no business 
without punctuality. ’ ’ 

‘ ‘ But there may be pleasure, ’ ’ said her ladyship. 
“You are indeed my first arrivals. This is my sanc- 
tum, where only the privileged may come ; and the 
privileged come much later than this. See, dear, this 
is the reception room.” 

An attendant drew aside a heavy plush curtain and 
disclosed a conservatory, filled with orchids and palms 
of many varieties, that gave upon a spacious salon and 
gallery, lighted with bunches of silver lamps. The 
284 . 


THE VICAR 


decorations were mostly white, with dainty water- 
colour drawings in the panels. The ceiling was fres- 
coed, the general effect being bright and cheerful. 
The entrance from the grand staircase was draped 
with a silken canopy that covered an adjacent opening 
into the conservatory, so that Lady Berwick, during 
the intervals of receiving, could retire to what she 
called her sanctum. On each side of the salon was a 
gallery of pictures with seats in bay-windows, and here 
and there a buffet, at which every kind of luxurious 
refreshment was provided. At the further end of the 
salon a platform had been raised, upon which was 
already posted a famous string band, that later in the 
evening played selections from Schubert, Weber, Wag- 
ner, Strauss, Mendelssohn, and other great composers ; 
while now and then variety was obtained by the vol- 
untary performances of professional artistes who were 
among her ladyship’s personal friends. 

“You must come and help me to receive ; will you, 
dear ?’ ’ she said. 

“You are very kind, dear Lady Berwick. I don’t 
feel quite well ; it is the journey, perhaps, and I think 
I am rather bashful.” 

“ You shall permit Susannah make herself right at 
home, dear friend, ’ ’ said the Vicar, ‘ ‘ and you will soon 
find her playing her part just as you could wish. ’ ’ 

‘ ‘ My dear girl, you are free of the house. Pray 
consider my private room your own. Go there when 
you wish ; I will take care that you are not disturbed. 
My dear, if I did not steal away from the chatter of the 
salon and the continual greetings of my friends, I 
should never be able to get through the night. I cease 
to receive in a formal way after the first hour. I have 
several friends who fill my place quite well while I rest. 
285 


THE VICAR 


They profess to go in search of me, and have other 
little devices to save me. I make my receptions as in- 
formal as is consistent with a reasonable etiquette ; it 
is, in fact, open house at such times ; and some of my 
guests take the liberty to bring uninvited friends of 
their own.*' 

They had now returned to the sanctum. The ser- 
vant drew the curtain and retired. 

‘ ‘ One of my guests has given me a surprise. It 
will be no less an astonishment to you. Vicar. Sit 
down, Susannah, dear ; you look pale ; you must let 
me prescribe for you ; yes, indeed, you must. ’ * 

She took from a cabinet a cruet, and poured out a 
delicate liqueur, which she pressed upon Susannah. 
The girl sipped the cordial, and declared she felt better. 
While Lady Berwick had had a presentiment of a tri- 
umphant night, Susannah had not been able to bear up 
against a feeling that something evil was going to happen 
to her. 

“ Probably you never heard of Mr. Max Nettleship, 
though he has written several popular books ?’ ’ 

‘ ‘ A novelist ?’ * asked Susannah. 

“Yes ; he wrote ‘The Heroes of Windy Nook* and 
‘The Night March.* ** 

‘ ‘ The name seems familiar to me, * * said the Vicar. 

“ He is a gentleman ; novelists, you know, are some- 
times gentlemen.** 

‘ ‘ Always, I hope. Lady Berwick. Scott was one of 
the greatest gentlemen ; wrote like one, thought like 
one, and died a martyr to his high sense of honour.** 

“Yes, of course,’* said her ladyship, half inclined to 
mention one of her pet aversions, who in her opinion 
wrote novels without thinking it necessary to be a gen- 
tleman, either with his pen or without it ; but she 
286 


THE VICAR 


wanted to stand well with the Vicar, whose nature was 
broad, tolerant, and generous. 

“ And Mr. Nettleship ?” asked the Vicar, inquiringly. 

“ Well, he informed me yesterday that he had re- 
cently mariied, and asked permission to present his 
wife to me and my friends to-night. An odd, eccen- 
tric fellow, sagacious, witty, a member of the Parthenon 
Club, in the very best Society ; and whom do you think 
he has married ? Prepare yourself for a revelation that 
will, I feel sure, be most agreeable to you both. ’ ’ 

Lady Berwick was aware that the secret of Lizzie 
Melford’s misfortune had been well kept from Susan- 
nah ; but as she continued her explanation she gave a 
significant glance at the Vicar, that he might not inter- 
vene or check her in what she was going to say. 

“You remember my little school assistant, Lizzie 
Melford ?” 

“Yes,” said Susannah, eagerly, “of course I do; 
you have heard of her ?’ ’ 

“ She is Mr. Max Nettleship’ s wife.” 

“ His wife !” exclaimed the Vicar. 

‘ ‘ Really !’ ’ said Susannah. 

“ His wife,” repeated Lady Berwick. 

“The poor child,” said the Vicar; “ I am very 
glad.” 

“They treated her badly at the Homestead, and she 
ran away,” said Susannah. “She had met Mr. Net- 
tleship, I suppose, at Wulstan, or somewhere ; but why 
did she not let Comberton know that she was safe and 
happy ?’ ’ 

“An odd girl,” said Lady Berwick. “I always 
thought her flighty, and she certainly was deceitful ; 
read novels on the sly, when we thought she was 
studying serious books. Probably she had read Net- 
287 


THE VICAR 


tleship’s novels; who can tell? It is a strange 
world.” 

” It is, indeed,” said the Vicar. 

At which moment the distant strains of a Wagnerian 
march filtered through the orchids and plush and made 
a faint accompaniment to the conversation, that was 
presently interrupted by the entrance of a footman an- 
nouncing the first arrivals. As he flung aside the por- 
tiere for her ladyship to pass through the conservatory 
into the salon, Keziah entered by the opposite door. 

“ Excuse me, your ladyship, — a note for Miss Wood- 
cote, ’ ’ she said ; and Keziah gave Susannah an enve- 
lope, unsealed. 

Susannah opened it, and read, ” I must see you, — 
James Bradley.” 

“ Is it from any one you know?” the Vicar asked. 

‘ ‘ Yes, ” said Susannah. ‘ ‘ May I join you presently ? 
I wish to speak to Keziah.” 

‘ ‘ Certainly, love, by all means, ’ ’ said her ladyship. 
“ Come, Vicar, give me your arm.” 

As they emerged from the conservatory into the 
salon, the first group of guests was announced by a 
stalwart footman dressed in her ladyship’s most cere- 
monious livery. 

“Mr. and Mrs. Hatherstone Bigges ; Lord Mus- 
kerry. Lady Muskerry ; Captain the Honourable John 
Stammers ; Mr. Hilliary Brown ; Mrs. and Miss Caine ; 
Sir Henry Mellish and Lady Mellish ; the Count Alexis, 
the Countess Alexis ; Mr. Bernard Henry Smith, Lady 
and the Misses Smith.” 

During the pauses, when opportunity offered. Lady 
Berwick introduced the Reverend the Vicar of Com- 
berton-cum-Besford to such guests as stood near her ; 
and presently they had become quite a distinguished 
288 


THE VICAR 

and numerous party. The Vicar was deeply im- 
pressed. 

The band seemed already to be subdued by the con- 
versation and the continuous announcements. 

“Mr. David Hansard, Mrs. Hansard; Mrs. Pren- 
tice, Miss Prentice, and Mr. Prentice and Mr. John 
Prentice junior ; Captain Galigan ; Major Drew and 
Lady Montagu-Drew ; General Martin-James ; Sir 
Peter Blaney and Miss Blaney ; Mr. Archie Peters and 
Mr. Adolphus Pips.” 

“That is Dolly Pips, the comedian,” said her lady- 
ship in a whisper to the Vicar, seeing that Mr. Hussing- 
tree looked at the genial and jaunty Pips with an in- 
quiring and amused smile. 

“ Indeed !” said the Vicar. “A comedian ; and he 
looks his profession, I think.” 

“You have quite an eye for character,” Lady Ber- 
wick remarked ; and she presented the Vicar to the 
next new comer, the popular incumbent of a city parish, 
a rubicund well set-up cleric, who introduced the Vicar 
to his meek little wife. 

The guests continued to climb the grand staircase, 
that was lined with flowers, and as soon as the Vicar 
was once more at liberty. Lady Berwick presented him 
to the Countess Montressor, whose article in one of the 
Reviews, on “Prehistoric Man and Possible Society 
before the Flood,” had created so much stir, by reason 
of the doubts of the critics whether her ladyship was 
laughing at them or was in earnest in her ‘ ‘ lesson from 
the ages, ’ ’ which she had endeavoured to people and 
describe. 

While the Vicar was paying deferential court to the 
literary Countess, he heard a name that he had been 
conning over in his mind ever since Lady Berwick had 
19 289 


THE VICAR 


mentioned it. Amidst so many distractions it was dif- 
ficult to think of anything consecutively for five minutes 
together ; but the announcement of Mr. and Mrs. Max 
Nettleship brought the Vicar over to the head of the 
staircase, and he stood by while a neat, well-dressed, 
middle-aged gentleman was presenting a pretty, smiling, 
and happy-looking girl to Lady Berwick. 

‘ ‘ And here is a gentleman who will be glad to know 
you, Mr. Nettleship,” said her ladyship. “May I be 
permitted. Vicar ; this is Mr. Max Nettleship, of whom 
I have spoken to you. The Vicar of Comberton-cum- 
Besford, Mr. Max Nettleship.” 

“lam glad to meet you, sir,” said the Vicar, with 
a courtly bow. ‘ ‘ And your wife ?’ ’ 

Mrs. Nettleship had withdrawn a little apart, under 
the influence of Lady Berwick, who desired to give her 
an opportunity of composing herself. 

“Lizzie,” said Nettleship, looking towards her. 
The young wife stepped forward, her dark hair giving 
an extra pallor to her face, for she had felt her heart 
stand still, as it seemed, at sight of the Vicar. She 
had been prepared by Max to meet her ladyship ; but 
to be suddenly confronted with the Vicar was an un- 
expected situation. 

“ My dear child,” said the Vicar, coming forward to 
meet her, ‘ ‘ I am very glad to see you again, very. ’ ’ 

He took her hand, in a fatherly way, and held it. 
“You have caused us a great deal of anxiety, the 
greater is the relief at finding you again ; I congratu- 
late you upon your husband, my dear, — a good fellow, 

I am sure,” and he patted Nettleship on the shoulder. 
“ I have said many a prayer for you, my child ; and I 
feel, as I see you now, that they have been answered, — 
God bless you both !’ ’ 


290 


THE VICAR 


Some of the bystanders were a little amused at the 
scene, which they did not understand. The Vicar laid 
his hand upon Mrs. Nettleship’s head, as if in the act 
of publicly blessing her ; then turned away, but only 
to watch her join the other guests, Nettleship smiling 
and nodding approvingly at the Vicar, who smiled 
back, while Lady Berwick was saying to everybody 
near her, “ Old friends ; not met for years ; Mrs. Nettle- 
ship was one of the Vicar’s most charming parishioners, 
a delightful creature ; Mr. Nettleship is a lucky man.” 

“You are a good woman,” said the Vicar, quietly, 
to Lady Berwick. “You have been telling them what 
a charming girl she was, one of my parishioners ; and 
saying that he is to be congratulated.” 

“ I think he is,” she said. 

‘ ‘ And I truly hope so, ’ ’ replied the Vicar, who at least 
knew enough of the world to understand how valuable, 
socially and otherwise, to that newly married pair were 
Lady Berwick’s few words of approval and the more 
or less public introduction to himself, the white-haired 
Vicar of a country parish. 


291 


CHAPTER XXXVII. 


TO THE MUSIC OF SYMPHONY AND SONG. 

In the meantime Susannah was realising something 
of her premonition of trouble. 

“Pll go and fetch him, miss,” said Keziah. ‘‘I 
believe he would have come into the room without a 
word, if I hadn’t begged him to send you a note of 
warning. ’ ’ 

Before she left the room she drew the curtain. 

‘ ‘ What can he want with me ? Has he found out at 
last who dropped the lamp, and why?” 

“Well, you might show a bit of manners,” said 
Keziah, as Bradley pushed past her and presented 
himself before Susannah ; ‘ ‘ don’ t point at me. ’ ’ 

“ I want to speak to Miss Woodcote alone.” 

“Very well; that is, if Miss Woodcote does not 
object.” 

“ No, Keziah ; please leave us for a few minutes.” 

Bradley followed Keziah to the door, and saw that it 
was shut. 

“Very sorry to bother you just now. Miss Wood- 
cote, but I came to see you about that job at the 
Vicarage. ’ ’ 

“The robbery at Comberton?” asked Susannah, 
endeavouring to suppress the tremor in her voice. 

“Don’t be alarmed, miss. Let me give you a 
seat.” 

He placed a chair for her. 

“Thank you,” she said. 

292 


THE VICAR 


‘ ‘ I mean about the parties that broke into the Vicar- 
age library. ’ ’ 

“ Pray explain yourself, Mr. Bradley.” 

“ Fact is, Miss Woodcote, I want to save you some 
annoyance; I always was a lady’s man. You. see, 
miss, if you had only told us what you saw ’ ’ 

‘ ‘ What I saw !’ ’ 

“It would have saved everybody a world of 
bother. ’ ’ 

“Go on, Mr. Bradley; I am listening, but I don’t 
understand what you mean.” 

“ Ah, miss, I think you do. Young Mr. Tom Hus- 
singtree may be arrested to-night. ’ ’ 

“Arrested! Oh, the poor Vicar!” exclaimed 
Susannah, greatly agitated. 

‘ ‘ Don’ t give way, miss, ’ ’ said Bradley, with an in- 
ward smile at his cleverness in getting from Susannah, 
if not in words, in her manner, the confession he so 
much desired. 

“I am not giving way. Don’t mind me; keep 
nothing back ; let me know all you have to say, and 
quickly. ’ ’ 

“ You’ll have to be called as a witness, you see, — so 
I came to warn you. I never thought any trouble too 
great that would serve a lady. Now, the best thing 
you can do is to go abroad, some place where it .is dif- 
ficult to find you, and it may be we can do without 
you ; of course, we must, if we can’ t get at you. ’ ’ 

“ It is impossible ! Oh, Mr. Bradley, for his father’s 
sake, let Tom go ; don’t think of- me, think of his father. 
It was for the Vicar, so kind, so good, so beloved, that 
I held my peace. ’ ’ 

“Nay, dear young lady, you know you did more 
than hold your peace ; you said you knew nothing of 

293 


THE VICAR 


the lamp, that you didn’t drop the letter; and you 
must have told the Vicar you were asleep all the 
time. ’ ’ 

“You mean — that I lied?” 

“Nay, I did not say that.” 

“You mean that a lie by implication is nevertheless 
a lie?” 

‘ ‘ If you put it so, I ’ ’ 

“You mean,” continued Susannah, raising her voice 
from a whisper almost to a cry, “to denounce Tom 
Hussingtree on my evidence ! It is a dastardly thing 
to do.” 

“That is strong language. Miss Woodcote, to an 
officer who is only here in your own interest. ’ ’ 

From an attitude of defiance the poor girl sank im- 
mediately to one of supplication. And all the time the 
music of a Strauss waltz could be heard in the distance. 

‘ ‘ What is to be done ? What can be done ?’ ’ she 
exclaimed, beside herself. ‘ ‘ Oh, if I could buy your 
silence ! Not for my own sake,” and she took from 
her neck a diamond brooch. “ Take this as a token ; 
it is worth a great deal, and name your own price !’ ’ 

‘ ‘ My dear young lady, you do not know what you 
are saying. ’ ’ 

“ Oh, yes, I do,” she replied, clinging for support to 
the back of a chair. “ Yes, I do ; I will give anything 
in the world I have, any money, if ’ ’ 

She had raised her voice slightly, against the com- 
petition of a chorus from Carmen that had succeeded 
the Strauss walk in the salon. 

“You are not yourself. Miss Woodcote ; you are 
talking at random. ’ ’ 

‘ ‘ I believe you would help the Vicar, with no other 
reward than the consciousness that you had done some- 
294 


THE VICAR 


thing for a kind and honourable man. Oh, Mr. Brad- 
ley, at any cost spare him, spare us all from the shame 
of Tom Hussingtree’s arrest !” 

“ I must do my duty,” said the Inspector, “but I 
want to do it as gently as I can ; that’s why I came to 
see you. ’ ’ 

Voices were heard in the conservatory ; a hand was 
upon the curtain. 

“A most delightful composition,” the Vicar was 
heard saying, ‘ ‘ vivacious and tuneful. ’ ’ 

“It is the Vicar, ’ ’ said Susannah. ‘ ‘ In the name 
of heaven, wait outside, — anything, — don’t let him see 
you yet ! — I’ll come to you.” 

She almost forced Bradley through the doorway and 
closed it, as the Vicar and Lady Berwick entered. 

‘ ‘ And the song, the ballad the young lady sang ‘be- 
fore the movement from Strauss, a delightful song — 
what did you say it was ?’ ’ 

‘ ‘ The title is the first words of the refrain, ‘ That is 
How We Maidens Woo,’ ” her ladyship replied ; noting 
at the same time that Susannah was making an effort to 
appear calm, the while she was evidently struggling 
with some deep emotion. 

‘ ‘ And a charming melody ! Let me see, how did it 
go?” said the Vicar, humming a few bars of the tune. 

‘ ‘ Is that it ?’ ’ 

“Yes. What an ear you have. Vicar !” 

“You should have heard it, Susannah,” said the 
Vicar, quite oblivious of his ward’s anxious face and 
Lady Berwick’s watchful observation of the girl. “ I 
like the lines, ‘ Sighing when our hearts are glad. Say- 
ing No with our lips. While the heart says Yes.’ 
There’s satire in that, of a description that does not 
sting ; and the moral’s good, too !” 

295 


THE VICAR 


“You are quizzing us,” said her ladyship, touching 
the Vicar’s arm protestingly with her fan. 

“No, indeed; you should know me better. She 
sighs when she is glad, says No when she means Yes, 
that is deceit ; losing her lovers by such poor strategy 
is poetical justice, and the moral ” 

“Many of the songs you may hear to-night have 
morals. — ‘The Roman-nosed Pig’ has a moral,” said 
her ladyship, with a serious face, that broke into smiles 
at the Vicar’s reply. 

“ Dear me ! has it ? I am glad. This combination 
of precept with amusement is very pleasant, very. My 
dear Susannah, I wish you had been with us, to hear 
the song. The lady who sang, by the way, what was 
her name, did you say ? Rather a remarkable name ?’ ’ 

‘ ‘ Miss Lister Plantagenet. ’ ’ 

“Was that the name? It does not strike me as 
odd ; but it did ; surely you said ?’ ’ 

‘ ‘ Lottie Plantagenet, ’ ’ replied her ladyship ; ‘ ‘ her 
friends call her Lottie.” 

“Not quite euphonious with Plantagenet, is it ? But 
what a charming woman. Talks as well as she sings ; 
and she is an actress. Well, I am surprised, really.” 

A knock at the private door (whence Bradley had 
been so unceremoniously pushed out by Susannah) ; 
and Keziah entered, somewhat hurriedly. 

‘ ‘ Lord Cleeve, your ladyship, ’ ’ she said. ‘ ‘ He 
wished to come this way ; didn’t desire to be an- 
nounced ; said he would prefer to wait until you left 
the gallery. * ’ 

And thereupon his lordship entered, looking both 
handsome and distinguished, wearing the small collar 
of some noble order below his necktie. 

“lam indeed fortunate in finding all my friends at 
296 


THE VICAR 

once,” he said, as he returned Lady Berwick’s cordial 
greetings. 

While Lady Berwick took the opportunity to cross 
over to Susannah, the Vicar took his friend’s arm. He 
was overflowing with a desire to confess how much he 
was enjoying himself, and the injustice he had done 
to what Lord Cleeve called the Bohemian character of 
Lady Berwick’s assemblies. 

‘ ‘ My dear Cleeve, I am ashamed of myself. All 
these years I have been doing a great injustice to a 
class of Society I neither knew nor understood. De- 
lightful people. One of the most charming Women I 
ever met, lady-like, refined, cultured, is an actress !’ ’ 

“ Yes ; I know many such, dear friend.” 

“Do you, really !” said the Vicar, drawing Cleeve 
still further aside and addressing him in a whisper. 

‘ ‘ This lady speaks in an educated voice, and with an 
eloquence worthy of the Church itself ; and yet ap- 
pears, I am told, on the stage, as a boy, takes the part 
of Rosalind in ‘As You Like It.’ But it is her pro- 
fession, and I begin to think that I almost agree with 
her, that the Stage comprehends not the least noble of 
the arts. ’ ’ 

And now it was Cleeve’ s turn to say “Really!” 
The Vicar was speaking with the enthusiasm of a dis- 
coverer ; he had found a new world. 

‘ ‘ I thought you would be surprised, ’ ’ added 
Cleeve. 

“ Surprised and delighted,” said the Vicar. 

The plush curtains had remained open, and the music 
and talk of the fashionable crowd could be distinctly 
heard. While the Vicar was speaking there was a lull 
for a few seconds, and then some applause. The open- 
ing bars of a song were struck on a piano. 

297 


THE VICAR 


“What is that?” said the Vicar, turning to Lady 
Berwick. ‘ ‘ Some one else is going to sing ?’ ’ 

“Yes ; Mr. Dolly Pips.” 

‘ ‘ Dear me ! the comedian you spoke of ?’ ’ 

“ Yes ; he is going to sing a song Mr. Toole used to 
sing in what he called one of his classic plays.” 

‘ ‘ Mr. Dolly Pips ! Such a pleasant-looking little 
gentleman ! Oh ! I must hear him ; I would not miss 
a line of it. ’ ’ 

Lord Cleeve and Lady Berwick exchanged glances 
of amusement, and Susannah was trying her hardest to 
look interested. 

‘ ‘ Do you think I might take Susannah to hear it ?’ * 
said the Vicar, softly, to Lady Berwick ; as if it had 
suddenly occurred to him that, after all, perhaps, a 
clergyman and his ward had strayed into questionable 
society ; but he dismissed the unworthy thought the 
next moment. 

“ Oh, I think so,” said Lady Berwick, with a mean- 
ing smile. 

“Now you are mocking me,” said the Vicar. 
“Well, I deserve it. What is the song?” 

“It is called ‘ He always came Home to his 
Tea.’ ” 

“Oh, that’s domestic ! There cannot be any harm 
in that. Come along, Susannah, my love. ’ ’ 

“Thank you, dear, I would rather be excused. I 
will join you by and by. ’ ’ 

“And I have a word to say to Miss Woodcote,” said 
Cleeve. ‘ ‘ May I bring her presently. Lady Berwick ?’ ’ 

“Certainly, dear friend,” said her ladyship, in her 
most gracious and purring manner. There was an em- 
phasis on the adjective that caused Cleeve to turn and 
look at her. 


298 


THE VICAR 


“Come, Lady Berwick,” said the Vicar, impatiently, 
* ‘ Mr. Pips is beginning. ^ ’ 

“You will not be long?” said her ladyship to 
Cleeve. 

“My dear Cleeve,” said the Vicar, as he hurried 
Lady Berwick away, “lam delighted with these peo- 
ple !” 

Lord Cleeve followed the Vicar and their hostess, 
and saw that an attendant closed the conservatory door 
as they went into the gallery. He himself drew the 
heavy portiere of the small drawing-room. 

“I hope you are enjoying yourself, Miss Wood- 
cote.” 

“Yes,” she said, with a sigh that belied her word. 

“ I am sorry I could not come to town with you.” 

* ‘ It was arranged that you should. ’ ’ 

“ It was.” 

“ And the Vicar was greatly disappointed.” 

‘ ‘ It had occurred to me, from something you said, 
that you would prefer that I did not. ’ ’ 

‘ ‘ Something I said ?’ ’ 

“ Yes ; but let us not speak of it now. I came here 
to-night to seek an opportunity to say a few words to 
you before I leave England for some time. ’ ’ 

“Yes?” she said. 

“ Indeed, that was my only purpose. I will not pain 
you by telling you how deeply I am interested in your 
welfare, how much I admire, how much I — respect you. 
I want to bid you Good-bye !’ ’ 

‘ ‘ Good-bye !’ ’ 

“ I am going on a long journey to America, Japan, 
Australasia, — round the world, in fact.” 

“ But that is no new idea. Lord Cleeve ; you have 
often talked of it.” 

299 


THE VICAR 


Yes ; but I sail to-night. Here are my papers and 
tickets. ’ ’ 

He produced his pocket-book, and showed her a 
document, as much to convince her as himself, for he 
had been somewhat hasty in concluding his arrange- 
ments. 

“It is dated, you see. Steamship Agamemnon ; — 
she leaves the London Docks at two in the morning. 
My luggage is on board ; my carriage will call here for 
me. I shall not return, perhaps for years. ’ ’ 

“ Nothing but trouble ! Nothing but trouble !“ she 
said, her head in her hands. 

“Trouble!” repeated Lord Cleeve, bending towards 
her. ‘ ‘ Is my going a trouble ?’ ’ 

“ It is, indeed.” 

‘ ‘ Have you any other trouble ?’ ’ 

“Oh, yes I A great trouble ; and the greater be- 
cause I may not tell it to you. ’ ’ 

‘ ‘ I think you might. ’ ’ 

“I cannot.” 

“I am a man of experience. Miss Woodcote. I 
have seen the world. You cannot doubt my faith or 
that I am governed by any idle curiosity. Tell me 
what it is that has so disturbed you ?’ ’ 

“Oh, I cannot, I cannot I” she said, her voice 
trembling with emotion. 

‘ ‘ I can see that you are very unhappy. I had not 
thought to speak to you of my love. But I will now, 
because I think I may be able to serve you ; and when 
I tell you that you are to me the dearest object in the 
world, you will not doubt me. Again, I am going 
away for years, and the secret will be away with me 
wherever I may go. You have nothing to fear from 
one so bound to you in esteem and respect, and I dare 
300 


THE VICAR 

even to say, in a love that nothing can change ; let me 
help you ?’ ’ 

“I never doubted your friendship,” she said, wiping 
away her tears, and speaking now firmly and with 
calmness, ” I do not doubt your love; God bless .you, 
wherever you may go ! You will not question me 
when I tell you that I cannot reveal the cause of my 
distress and sorrow to you, and I pray that it may never 
be known.” 

“I bow to your decision. We may not have so 
favourable an opportunity to say Good-bye. ’ ’ 

” Good-bye,” she said, holding out her hand. 

Cleeve took it, and pressed it fervently to his lips. 

Lady Berwick had lifted the portiere sufficiently to 
feel deeply interested in what was passing ; but she 
now deemed it wise to interrupt the interview. 

“Oh, Sue, dear, don’t you want to join the Vicar? 
He is continually asking for you. Just now he is chat- 
ting with Mr. Pips. Why, Susannah, love, you have 
been crying. My darling, what is it? You are not 
well, and that wicked Cleeve has been telling you he 
is going away. How dare you, sir !” 

She shook her fan at Cleeve, and drew an arm around 
Susannah, who was in fear of Bradley’s return, for 
surely he would be tired of waiting. But Lady Ber- 
wick had arranged for another visitor, whose presence 
she hoped would be the means of sending Lord Cleeve 
away with other views in his mind than those which 
Susannah had reawakened ; that is, if he went away at 
all ; for Lady Berwick hoped to detain him. 


301 


CHAPTER XXXVIII. 


“all the world’s a stage.” 

‘ ‘ Lord Cleeve will take you into the gallery and 
give you some refreshment, Susannah. I declare I will 
not allow you to remain here any longer. Go, dear, 
and take at least one turn round the rooms.” 

Lord Cleeve bowed to her ladyship, who felt so secure 
in her plans that she no longer feared the fascinations 
of Susannah. She knew that Lord Cleeve was going 
away very soon, within the hour she believed, and she 
was anxious to make that last hour pleasant to him. 

“Will you come?” said Cleeve. 

“Thank you,” said Susannah, her hand upon his 
arm. 

The lights and the crowd of people swam before her 
for a few minutes ; a sudden giddiness seized her, and, 
almost fearing she might fall, she leaned heavily upon 
Lord Cleeve’ s arm. He thrilled at her touch. It oc- 
curred to him that he might after all be making a Quixotic 
sacrifice in leaving England ; but the next moment he 
as strongly felt that he was doing the right thing, and 
perhaps even the best, in view of his dearest hopes. 

“You are not well,” he said, softly, and looking 
down into her face. 

‘ ‘ I am better now, thank you. ’ ’ 

“It is the perfume of those exotics, I think, in her 
ladyship’s room and the heat of the conservatory, that 
have made you feel faint. Let us walk towards yonder 
window.” 


302 


THE VICAR 


“No, it is not that, Lord Cleeve. Oh, if I dared 
tell you !“ 

Then suddenly she paused, and said, “Listen a 
moment, but don’t look to your right until we return. 
I think that must be Superintendent Bradley who has 
just gone into the conservatory.” 

‘ ‘ Superintendent Bradley !’ ’ 

“Yes. I saw him a little while ago ; he had an 
overcoat on, buttoned to the throat ; he is now in 
evening dress.” 

‘ ‘ Bradley in evening dress !’ ’ 

“Yes.” 

“What for?” 

“You have great influence with him ?” 

“Yes, if it is necessary to exercise it. Is he here 
with Lady Berwick’s permission?” 

“I don’t know.” 

“ It is a common thing to have a detective about on 
these occasions. But Bradley, of all men ! A clumsy, 
ignorant, country policeman, what can he be doing 
here ? I’ll ask Lady Berwick.” 

“No; don’t do that. Watch him. Lord Cleeve; 
watch him. Don’t let him do what he intends. — If 
you must go abroad, first send him away, and compel 
him to ” 

By this time they were again near the conservatory. 
Lord Cleeve looked at his watch. It was past eleven ; 
his vessel was timed to sail at two. 

‘ ‘ Oh, Lord Cleeve, if I dared tell you ! It may be 
necessary ; I pray that it may not be. Don’t you see 
a figure behind that great palm on the left ?’ ’ 

“Yes. I will take you in, and rejoin you imme- 
diately. ’ ’ 

While Susannah was engaged in a vain endeavour to 
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guard her pathetic secret, and almost within earshot of 
Mr. and Mrs. Nettleship, who were chatting with an 
old friend of Lizzie’s husband, a perfect stranger to all 
of them was relating to a playwright the triumphant 
end of Luke Fenton. “ It is in the specials,” he said, 

‘ ‘ and as I read it I thought of your idea of a military 
play.” 

“ Very kind of ^'^ou, old fellow,” said the playwright, 
somewhat superciliously. 

” Not at all, ’ ’ replied the unsophisticated friend. ‘ ‘ I 
know you are always looking out for dramatic incidents. 
If I was one of you fellows. I’d sooner take ideas from 
the newspapers than look up old plays or new novels. ’ ’ 

” Quite right,” said the other, with a pitying smile ; 
for the good-natured friend was rich, and had been 
known to put a couple of thousand pounds into a 
theatrical syndicate, and to have lost it cheerfully. 

‘ ‘ This fellow, I think he was in a Dorsetshire regi- 
ment, seems to have led a charmed life for a time. 
Nobody knew him in the regiment, until he joined it ; 
but he had influence with the commander ; a noble lord 
had said a good word for him. The fellow was a cor- 
poral or sergeant, I forget which ; there was some jeal- 
ousy, it seems, about the way he was pushed on and 
got to the front ; but, by Jove, sir, when there was 
fighting to be done, he became a hero, not only with 
his comrades, but in the estimation of the enemy.” 

“Yes,” said the playwright. ” If you were one of 
us fellows, as you just now remarked, you would get 
on with your story. ’ ’ 

‘ ‘ But I am laying it in, as you say. I heard you 
telling Timbs, the critic, that the First Act of a play 
should do no more than just lay in the story. 

“Well?” 

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“ Well, old chap, it is necessary that you should know 
something of my hero ; I am laying him in. ’ ’ 

Laying him out, you mean, ’ ’ said the playwright. 

“ Thank you,” replied the unsophisticated friend. 

” Don’t mention it,” said the playwright. 

“I won’t,” said the other. 

‘ ‘ What are you two fellows wrangling about ?’ ’ in- 
quired the editor of the particular ‘ ‘ special’ ’ which the 
friend of the dramatist had quoted. 

* ‘ Hawkins is giving me his idea of a dramatic inci- 
dent and a military hero. ’ ’ 

“It’s the story of Sergeant Fenton, in your latest 
edition,” said Hawkins, somewhat crushed by his im- 
patient auditor. 

‘ ‘ And Hawkins is right, if he sees that very remark- 
able narrative from a dramatic point of view. ’ ’ 

“Tell our arrogant friend the story,” said Hawkins. 

“ Oh, well, it is soon told ; you might learn it from 
the head-lines really — ‘ A charmed life,’ — ‘The Hero 
of Pindi and the Khyber’ — “ ‘And they smote them 
hip and thigh,”’ — ‘Truth Stranger than Fiction.’ 
His name was Luke Fenton. Nobody knew him. 
The regiment believed him to be a scholar. He never 
drank, but frequently prayed. In the hottest engage- 
ment he was as cool as if he had been on parade. Be- 
fore he delivered his shot, or at the order to charge, he 
would shout, ‘ And they smote them hip and thigh, 
from Dan even unto Beersheba !’ and his bullet never 
missed its mark. His bayonet was the deadliest in the 
regiment. At Pindi, under the cruellest fire, he brought 
in wounded comrades. Between Tirah and Bara he 
left the camp at night, surprised an outpost of the 
enemy and rescued a Sikh, who had been taken pris- 
oner and would have been tortured. Cut off from his 

305 


20 


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own company, the next day a handful of Ghurkas 
made a gallant stand for him, but found themselves in 
their turn under a concentrated fire from a rocky shel- 
ter above them. Leaving several dead in the defile, 
they obtained cover, and for a time with advantage. 
Their commander killed, they elected the English ser- 
geant to lead them. They held their position for hours, 
Fenton, with his biblical shibboleth, eventually rising 
in their estimation to the dignity of a god. No matter 
how he exposed himself, the Lee-Metford bullets went 
crashing into the rocks, missing him as if by a miracle ; 
and then would follow the shout of the red-coated hero 
and a new death amongst the enemy. At last, signals 
from a village down in the valley commanded the 
Ghurka post to come down. Fenton saw that the 
enemy was being reinforced and that a few of them had 
already collected in front to cut him off. Gathering his 
little company together, and creeping for a while as if 
in an opposite direction, he suddenly led them against 
the enemy in their front, and swept them into the defile 
below like chaff before a tempest. The village reached, 
Fenton received an ovation, and the officer in command 
informed him that he should mention him for the Vic- 
toria Cross ; but hardly had the cheers died away, than 
a deadly fire was opened upon the village from an un- 
expected quarter. The line of march had been through 
the most terrific complications of rocks and mysterious 
defiles ; troops perhaps never fought in so difficult a 
country. The little company held their own for a 
time ; but it soon became evident that the position was 
untenable. The young lieutenant in command ordered 
a retreat to a post further down the valley, which 
could, however, only be reached with any possible 
chance of success in single file, one man at a time, 


THE VICAR 


taking advantage of every point of shelter. The enemy 
had no suspicion of the gradual withdrawal of this rem- 
nant of the rear-guard until most of the men had won 
their way to the post. When it came to the remaining 
two, the officer and Fenton, it was the hero with his 
war-cry, ‘ From Dan even unto Beersheba,* who was 
last. At the one open spot over which the retreat had 
to be made the lieutenant was struck down. The next 
moment Fenton was by his side. As he lifted the officer 
to carry him in, a bullet struck the wounded man, and 
the two came to the ground, the officer dead. Fenton 
staggered to his feet and crept behind a bare crag that 
for a time protected him as a shield. Presently, how- 
ever, half-a-dozen of the enemy rushed into the gorge, 
where Fenton had found shelter. Driven into the open, 
the brave fellow stood at bay, rifle in hand, head erect, 
a very picture of splendid warfare. The Afridis might 
have shot him twenty times over. They did not ; but 
advanced upon him, crouching for a spring, evidently 
bent on taking him alive. Then the defiant figure was 
seen to imitate their own movements. There was some- 
thing of the forward crouch of the tiger in his advance 
upon them, culminating in a deadly spring, deadly for 
him as for the enemy. The struggle was brief. The 
Afridis fell thick around him. At last, flinging up his 
arms, he sank down upon the last of his victims. The 
next day, reinforcements having arrived, the rear-guard 
for a time assumed the offensive, and they brought in 
Fenton’s body. Not a scrap of paper or anything, to 
indicate who or what he was or whence he came, was 
found upon him. He was buried near the spot where 
he fell, Ghurkas, Sikhs, Gordon Highlanders, and Dor- 
sets paying the last honours with impressive signs of 
admiration and sorrow. ’ ’ 


307 


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* ‘ I beg your pardon, Hawkins, for seeming to dis- 
count the story, much obliged to you, old fellow, for 
planting it in my memory, ’ ’ said the playwright. ‘ ‘ And 
I thank God that the age of gallantry and sentiment is not 
extinct. There is a love story behind that biblical shib- 
boleth, you may be sure ; if there is not, we must invent 
one. Good-night. I want to say a word to my hostess. ’ ’ 

Susannah saw Lord Cleeve disappear among the 
palms ; but almost the next moment he was again by 
her side, and simultaneously with the entrance of the 
Vicar and a strange gentleman. 

“Bless me !” said Lady Berwick, “here’s the Vicar 
and Mr. Pips — High Church and Low Comedy.” 

‘ ‘ Cleeve, I have been listening to Mr. Pips. ’ ’ 

“Ah, my lord, how does your lordship do?” said 
Pips, going over to Lord Cleeve, and speaking in a 
quick, odd way, and with a jaunty shake of the head. 

“ Oh ! you know each other ?” said the Vicar. 

‘ ‘ Oh, yes ; prosperity makes us acquainted, etc. , as 
the poet sings, eh, Mr. Pips ?’ ’ said Lord Cleeve. 

“Never heard of that particular poet,” said Pips; 
“ quite a respectable chap, no doubt.” 

“No doubt,” said Lord Cleeve, taking the heavy 
hand of Pips, and shaking it cordially. 

“Not seen your lordship a month of Sundays,” said 
Pips, “until last night, at the Queen’s.” 

‘ ‘ I only looked in for a few minutes, ’ ’ said his lord- 
ship, ‘ ‘ on my way to the club. Sorry you had a frost.” 

“ A frost, in May ; it is rather late,” said the Vicar ; 
“though I remember snow on a first of June.” 

“Oh, we get frosts at the Queen’s all the year 
round,” said Pips. 

“ I presume you are very much exposed, Mr. Pips ?” 

“ No ; but I wish the critics were.” 

308 


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Lady Berwick laughed, and explained the tangle of 
metaphors to Susannah. 

“A frost in the profession,'’ said Lord Cleeve, “is 
said to mean ’’ 

“The profession?” said the Vicar, interrupting 
Cleeve. ‘ ‘ I beg your pardon ?’ ’ 

“Yes,” said Pips, “ ‘ pro.’ for short. I am a pro. ; 
there are several others about, thanks to Lady Ber- 
wick’s hospitality.” 

“Well, a ‘frost,’ my dear Hussingtree,” said 
Cleeve, ‘ ‘ means a failure. ’ ’ 

“You will learn something to-night,” said Lady 
Berwick, laughing. 

“Yes. Comberton, I find, is not all the world,” 
said the Vicar ; “not, indeed, very much of England.” 

“They amuse you. Vicar?” 

‘ ‘ Amuse me ! I am charmed. Mr. Pips has just 
been singing a most curious and strange ditty — ‘ Iky- 
tickey-iky’ — really, I can’t remember the odd refrain,” 
said the Vicar, with a hearty laugh at the remembrance 
of it. 

“ ‘ Icky-ticky-igh-tall-hat,’ ” said her ladyship; “has 
he been singing that nonsense ?’ ’ 

“Well, I don’t know about its being nonsense,” 
said the Vicar, ‘ ‘ but it made me laugh ; and if a thing 
is perfectly innocent and makes us laugh, it is good and 
has its uses, as the flowers of the field have theirs.” 
The old man waved his hand, as if he were addressing 
a congregation. 

“Now, isn’t the reverend gentleman perfectly splen- 
did !” said Pips, in his nervous, comical way. “He’s 
got no prejudice, he hasn’t.” 

‘ ‘ I trust not, Mr. Pips ; and to make that still clearer 
to you, I will tell you what I will do, young gentleman.” 
309 


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“ Young gentleman !” said Pips, with a comical bow. 
“ You do me proud, sir.” 

“ As I was saying, I will tell you what I will do ; 
you come and hear me preach, and I will go and see 
you act.” 

“Tell you what Pll do, dear old gentleman, tell you 
what’ll do,” said Pips; “you come and act for my 
benefit, and I’ll go and preach for yours.” 

“ Pips, Pips !” said Cleeve, in what might be called 
a stage-whisper, only intended for Pips. “Don’t let 
us forget ourselves.” 

‘ ‘ I trust I shall always act for the benefit of all my 
fellow-creatures, Mr. Pips,” said the Vicar, with much 
gravity ; ‘ ‘ but I think you will do more good by 
making people laugh than by attempting to preach. ’ ’ 

‘ ‘ Right you are !’ ’ said Pips. ‘ ‘ Say no more, most 
reverend sir. Shall we have a split ?’ ’ 

“I trust not, Mr. Pips, — Morality and Art should 
never be separated. ’ ’ 

Pips looked at Cleeve with an inquiring wink. 

‘ ‘ Collier and Congreve did not more misunderstand 
one another, — a split is a simple soda divided. Let me 
instruct you. Vicar, and join you ; come.” 

‘ ‘ Then I will have a split with you, Mr. Pips, ’ ’ said 
the Vicar ; and they w^ent, laughing, through the con- 
servatory to the gallery. 

Mr. Inspector Bradley was no longer standing senti- 
nel behind Lady Berwick’s palms ; but Cleeve exer- 
cised a watchful eye as he passed into the gallery, and 
presently left the Vicar and Pips and Mr. Nettleship 
discussing Art with an eminent Royal Academician 
and a popular journalist, to the accompaniment of a 
little wine and a great deal of music. 

310 


CHAPTER XXXIX. 

SUSANNAH’S SECRET. 

“Susannah, dear,” said Lady Berwick, “I wish 
you would cheer up ; while we are laughing and all in 
high spirits, you are sad as Dido. ’ ’ 

“My head aches a little,” said Susannah; as, indeed, 
it did, and well it might. 

“ Is it only your head, dear? Did Lord Cleeve say 
anything to you that has made you sad ? Has he said 
Good-bye ?’ ’ 

“Yes.” 

“ For a long time?” 

“For years.” 

“Ah, well, you will be consoled. I have been 
hoping all the night long to cheer you with the pres- 
ence of a guest who should have been here hours ago. 

I have a great surprise for you. Sue, my dear !” 

Lady Berwick, at risk of ruffling her own gay feathers, 
took the girl into her arms. ‘ ‘ Such a surprise !’ ’ 

She had timed this announcement well. Keziah put 
her head in at the door. Lady Berwick went to her. 
Keziah whispered a few words. 

“ Very well ; keep the door closed.” 

Keziah disappeared. Lady Berwick went into the 
conservatory, and beckoned an attendant. 

“Fasten the conservatory door; say your mistress 
does not wish to be disturbed for a few minutes. ’ ’ As 
the man departed, she drew the curtain, with a firm, 
determined hand. Susannah watched her with some 
astonishment. 

‘ ‘ Such a surprise, dear !’ ’ repeated her ladyship. 

311 


• THE VICAR 


‘ ‘ Another surprise ?’ ’ Susannah answered. 

‘ ‘ What other have you had, dear ?’ ’ 

“ Don’t ask me, Lady Berwick.” 

“Lord Cleeve has been saying something that 
troubles you?” 

“ No, no ; it is not that. I am a miserable girl !” 

“You’ll be happy enough soon, my child ; wait one 
moment. ’ ’ And her. ladyship went out at the door. 

“Happy?” said Susannah, to herself. “I shall 
never be happy again ! Oh, I wish I knew what I 
ought to do. I wonder if it was right to call Lord 
Cleeve’ s attention to Bradley? I seem to be helpless. 
And while I stand in doubt and fear, neglecting the 
warning of Superintendent Bradley, who declared he only 
came to serve me, Tom may be taken. Then what is to 
become of my secret ? what will they think of my word ?’ ’ 

She was pacing the room in her agitation, when, 
suddenly, she was confronted by Lady Berwick and 
Tom Hussingtree. 

‘ ‘ There, my dear, sweet little Sue, now you will be 
happy !” exclaimed Lady Berwick, triumphantly. 

“How are you, Susannah?” said Tom, who was 
dressed in the most correct of evening attire. He car- 
ried his crush hat under his arm, while he thrust his 
handkerchief into his cuff, with the air of an imitation 
aristocrat in a modern comedy. 

Susannah stood as one stunned. Lady Berwick 
drew the portiere aside and slipped out, that she might 
bring the Vicar, to witness the return of his handsome 
and prosperous son, come to claim the reward of his 
constancy and success. 

“You don’t seem very glad to see me ?” said Tom. 

“Did you think I should?” the girl replied, facing 
him, with steady eyes and in an unflinching attitude. 

312 


THE VICAR 


“I’m not a conceited fellow ; but I did.’’ 

“ Oh, Tom, how could you come here !’’ 

“ How could I ? I heard you were here, or I should 
have been at the Vicarage to-night. I took London 
on my way. Thought I’d like to make a call of cere- 
mony on Lady Berwick.’’ 

* ‘ Worse and worse !’’ said the girl. 

“Worse and worse ! What do you mean by this 
cold manner ? What is it ? Rather cruel after eigh- 
teen months’ absence and hard work. Have you for- 
gotten your promise ?’ ’ 

“No.’’ 

“ Didn’t you get my letter, saying I was coming?’’ 

“Yes.’’ 

He moved towards a cabinet, and laid his hat upon it. 

“You received it?’’ 

“Yes.’’ 

She never once moved her eyes from his face. His 
own fell before them. He began to feel that Lady 
Berwick had somehow or other entrapped him, instead 
of Susannah. 

“You are trifling with me,’’ he said. “ Don’t look 
at me in that forbidding way. What’s the meaning of 
it ? Do you want to back out of your promise ?’ ’ 

‘ ‘ Do you ask me to keep it ?’ ’ 

She stood at bay ; but without fear ; while he feared, 
he knew not what. 

“Yes.’’ 

“ Is that what you came here for?’’ 

“ I came here to ask you to fix the day for our mar- 
riage.’’ 

“ And do you dare to mention marriage to me, after 
what has passed ?’ ’ 

Lady Berwick had assured him, in her letters to New 
3*3 


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York, that the secret of Lizzie Melford’s disappearance 
from Comberton was carefully kept from Susannah. 
What then could she mean by referring ‘ ‘ to what has 
passed” ? She could know nothing else against him, 
at least nothing more than she might have known be- 
fore ; and yet he hesitated to meet her challenge. 

“Well, you see — won’t you sit down? and let me 
sit ?” 

She waved him back. 

“Well, as you please. You are devilish hard, I 
must say.” 

“You were saying that you came here to ask me to 
fix the day for our marriage ; I replied, do you dare 
to mention marriage to me after what has occurred ?” 

‘ ‘ All right, all right. When I went away, you were 
pledged to be my wife. The secret was to be kept for 
a year. You haven’t given me up because I am here 
before my time, because I’ve been more successful than 
I ever hoped to be in a new world? You haven’t 
promised to marry Lord Cleeve as well as me ?’ ’ 

“You should be the last man in the world to insult 
me, after all I have endured for you, ’ ’ she said ; and 
for the moment sank, overcome, into a seat, and vainly 
endeavoured to keep back her tears. 

“There, you needn’t, cry about it,” he said, attempt- 
ing to take her hand ; whereupon she rose to her feet 
and repelled him. 

‘ ‘ Do not dare to come near me !’ ’ she said. 

And it was at this moment that Lady Berwick had 
prepared her happy surprise for the Vicar. 

“You say I should be the last man to insult you — not 
that I mean to insult you — why should I, when I love 
you?” 

And once more he was about to approach her. 

314 


THE VICAR 


* ‘ If you touch me, I will cry out and have you thrust 
into the street. Oh, no, no ! My God, what am I say- 
ing ?” 

“That’s what I want to know,” said Tom, facing 
her. “Tell me what you mean by ‘ what has passed,’ 
and all the rest of it, at least, before you order me to 
leave Lady Berwick’s house.” 

“ I do not order you. But I will explain. ’ ’ 

“ If you please,” said Tom, as he flung himself care- 
lessly into a chair. 

“You ask me to do so ?” 

“ I demand it. It is surely my right.” 

“Let us advance or retreat, dear Lady Berwick,” 
said the Vicar, in an anxious whisper, to the lady of the 
house ; but she clung to his arm. She had lost her 
nerve ; she felt that she had neither the power to enter 
the room nor to withdraw ; and in a moment the voice 
of Susannah, with her pathetic story, held them both 
spell-bound. It galled the Vicar to be an eaves-drop- 
per ; but Lady Berwick had inveigled him into that un- 
dignified position. 

“You shall be obeyed,” said the girl. “Your pres- 
ence is associated with a scene which is engraven upon 
my memory, never to be effaced ; it haunts me night 
and day ; it is burnt into my heart and soul ; it makes 
my life a wretched mockery. Shall I recall it ?’ ’ 

“Go on,” he replied, defiantly. “Go on; let’s 
have it !” 

“ It is a peaceful winter’s night. Your father has just 
gone to rest. I, too, have retired ; but I return to the 
library, to find your letter, which I have dropped by the 
organ. I am alone in the room. There is a noise at 
the shutters. A man enters. He unlocks the safe. ’ ’ 

Tom moved uneasily in his chair, and bit his lips. 

315 


THE VICAR 


The sight of that man fascinates me. As he carries 
off the plunder I see his face.” 

Tom rose, staggered towards the door ; then sat 
down again. 

“ I creep out of the room, lock the door, and go to 
my chamber. I hear the alarm-bell. I pretend to be 
asleep. That is the lie I enact when the Vicar, your 
father, comes to my door. And that is the lie I have 
told, by word and deed, ever since ; I, who prided my- 
self on my truthfulness and honesty ! But I am screen- 
ing the Vicar’ s only son. ’ ’ 

Tom sank into his chair, his face in his hands. 

The Vicar, putting aside Lady Berwick, entered the 
room. 

“And you,” continued Susannah, her voice rising, 
almost in tones of declamation, — “and you upbraid me ! 
You insult the woman who has shielded you with false- 
hood in deed and word ! You have the heart to think 
that I had selfishly broken my word to you for another ! 
Since I may not marry either of you, and Lord Cleeve 
is leaving England, I confess that, looking deep into 
my heart, I have learnt, too late, that I do love Lord 
Cleeve. Heaven help me !” 

With which touching declaration, Susannah buried 
her face in her hands and wept. 

Tom, utterly bewildered in his terrible defeat, looked 
round the room, to meet the Vicar and Lady Berwick 
advancing upon him, the Vicar almost rudely resisting 
Lady Berwick, who was striving to hold him back. 

“At last !” said the Vicar, his voice trembling with 
passion, — “at last I know how base and cruel a son 
Heaven has thought fit to afflict me with ! I will waste 
no words upon you, sir. God knows I had hoped to 
have been able to forgive you, and take you home 


THE VICAR 

again. Leave this house, sir, and never let me see 
your face again !” 

Tom would have dashed out of the room on the in- 
stant, but felt as if he were riveted to the spot. Bewil- 
dered, and abashed, he bent his head before his father’s 
denunciation ; while Susannah, suddenly starting up, 
exclaimed, “Oh, what have I done? What have I 
done ? Let me think. Has any one seen Mr. Bradley ?’ ’ 

‘ ‘ Mr. Bradley !’ ’ repeated Lady Berwick, pale and 
trembling. 

“ Don’t let him come in here ! Fasten the doors. 
Oh, Vicar ! oh, my dear, they are looking for your 
son, to arrest him !’ ’ 

Lord Cleeve, who had been carrying out Susannah’s 
mission in regard to Bradley, entered the room at the 
moment. 

“ Oh, save him, save him !” exclaimed Susannah, 
appealing to his lordship. 

“For your sake, — and yours, dear friend,” turning 
to the Vicar, Cleeve replied, hurriedly, ‘ ‘ I will, at any 
cost ! Bradley has told me all. There is no time to lose. ’ ’ 

Tom looked up, with parted lips and a movement as 
if he would approach Lord Cleeve. 

“Listen, Tom,” said his lordship, going towards 
him. “ The police have taken your friend, Jim. They 
are waiting for you. There is only one chance of 
escape. ’ ’ 

‘ ‘ What is it ?’ ’ Tom asked, in a hoarse, anxious voice. 

While he was speaking, Lord Cleeve was hurriedly 
writing a note on a leaf of his pocket-book. Handing 
it to Tom, who took it as eagerly as if it might have 
been a reprieve from the gallows. Lord Cleeve said, 
‘ ‘ At the private door is my brougham, and my servant, 
Godfrey. Give this note to Godfrey ; it instructs him 
317 


THE VICAR 


that you are to travel in my place, that you will be his 
master until he has further orders from me. ’ ’ 

“Lord Cleeve!” exclaimed the Vicar, as if about to 
protest ; but his lordship waved back any objection. 

Taking from his pocket-book a bundle of papers, 
Cleeve continued, ‘ ‘ These are tickets for Australia, and 
beyond. The Agamemnon sails at two in the morning. ’ ’ 

Handing Tom the documents, he looked at his 
watch ; and with the tickets he had included sundry 
Bank of England notes. 

“ It is now twelve ; the vessel sails at two. You will 
find plenty of luggage in my state-room ; use it as if it 
were your own. You need not change the name on 
the passengers’ list ; I will communicate with the com- 
pany. Report to me your plans on arriving at Brindisi, 
and at Sydney. ’ ’ 

‘ ‘ Lord Cleeve, if it is possible to redeem the past, I 
will do it !” exclaimed Tom. 

“ It is always possible to repent and atone,” said the 
Vicar, with a longing look at his son. 

“ Father !” said Tom, bursting into tears. 

‘ ‘ Oh, my unhappy son !’ ’ exclaimed the Vicar, break- 
ing down, “ Good-bye, God forgive you !” 

“ Come, Tom ; come,” said Cleeve. “ Bradley may 
be here any moment, and then it might be too late. ’ ’ 

Tom needed no further hint, but rushed for the door 
and disappeared ; and hardly had the door closed upon 
him, when Bradley walked in from the conservatory, 
once more in his long overcoat. 

“ Step this way, Bradley,” said Cleeve ; and, motion- 
ing to the others not to interrupt them, he took Bradley 
to the further end of the room, and, offering him a 
seat by Lady Berwick’s desk, they sat down in earnest 
conversation. 


318 


THE VICAR 


“ My dear child,” said the Vicar, approaching Susan- 
nah, ‘ ‘ I heard your broken-hearted confession. It is 
in your power to obliterate some of the agony my son’s 
perfidy has caused me.” 

‘ ‘ My dear guardian, my more than father, my heart 
seeks no higher happiness than to prove my devotion 
to you.” 

‘‘You have more than proved it, my child. Has she 
not, dear Lady Berwick ?’ ’ 

Her ladyship was torn with a bitter struggle to dis- 
guise her disappointment at the turn events had taken. 
Her game of life, played as they play chess, had entered 
upon the last moves, in which she perceived defeat. 
But she was a woman of subtle resource ; she would 
affect to make the game a mere friendly contest ; it 
should end in a draw, or stale-mate ; and nobody 
should know how desperately she had played to win, 
nor what the stake. 

She took Susannah’s face between her hands, kissed 
her on the forehead, and shook the Vicar by the hand 
with unusual empressment. They could hear the close 
of Lord Cleeve’s conversation with Bradley as Lady 
Berwick turned her eyes in his direction. 

‘‘As I said before, you are the Lord-Lieutenant,” 
said Bradley, ‘ ‘ and I am ready to take my orders from 
your lordship.” 

“Then postpone this business until to-morrow, at 
my request. You shall not find me unmindful of the 
obligation. Call upon me before luncheon.” 

“I thank your lordship,” said Bradley, rising and 
making his customary military salute. ‘ ‘ Glad to get 
rid of the affair in that way. Yours respectfully.” 

He comprehended the entire company in this last 
remark, and left the room by way of the conservatory, 

319 


THE VICAR 


whence came the not inopportune sounds of Mendels- 
sohn’s “Wedding March.” 

“ Lord Cleeve! The Vicar, and I, knew your secret 
before you confessed it on a certain never-to-be-forgot- 
ten day. We are now possessed of another that is only 
a few minutes old. And yet we have kept it long 
enough. Have we not, Vicar, dear friend?” 

“You are a charming woman,” the Vicar replied. 

“ Don’t mind me,” said her ladyship, with her most 
gracious smile, and purring in her gentlest and most 
seductive way. ‘ ‘ Will you tell Lord Cleeve this short- 
lived secret, or shall I ?” 

“ I will be ruled by you,” said the Vicar, once more 
under the widow’s spell. “Woman’s wit is always 
right.” 

“Nay, it is a secret I had no right to hear. You, 
yourself, shall be the happy messenger.” 

“Nor is it, indeed, my secret,’’ said the Vicar, 

* ‘ since it was not volunteered to me. ’ ’ 

Then, all blushes and confusion, Susannah, releasing 
herself from the Vicar, looked Lord Cleeve in the face ; 
and without another word, she was in his arms. 

The Vicar turned to Lady Berwick, who was very pale. 

“ My dear Lady Berwick, you are overcome with 
joy. God bless you !” 

“You are too kind to me,” she replied ; and once 
more addressing the lovers, she said, “Well, dear 
friends, is the great secret told at last ?’ ’ 

“Thank you, yes. Lady Berwick,” Lord Cleeve 
replied. 

“ Let me be the first to kiss and congratulate you, 
my love,” said Lady Berwick. 

“ My dear, dear friend !” whispered Susannah. 


320 







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